Never Let Them Define You

ALMOST FEELING FREE

As she exits her apartment building, she holds her hands behind her like she's leading a trail of light, and holds her head up high. I have a new perspective, a gift, a purpose...hopefully it lasts. She smiles and walks down the sidewalk, feeling the textured roughness of the concrete, the divots and cracks on the segments, and the way the pieces have slid up and moved around like a forty-year earthquake had been shaping them.

She breathes deeply and keeps up a slow, consistent pace as she takes in the smell of gasoline, cigarettes, and all other holy things on her slice of Earth. She feels the dead, cold air; the snow crunching on her feet as she struts calmly in her toughest boots. She feels the slightest tug from her floor-length dress draping across the ground and gliding over the snow as she glides over the Earth. She feels herself high above all, her make-up lifting her face, her soul in its rightful place, and everything in her being feeling more and more okay.

Is this all because of a cup of espresso? She laughs and shakes her head back and forth to allow her hair to flutter across her shoulders.

"Are you laughing at me?" says a gravelly, broken voice.

She laughs again. "Never, whoever you are; I am laughing at the grace of my being."

"What the..."

She hears scuffling behind her and looks back to see a man in tattered, basic clothes getting up and walking towards her. "What do you want?"

"What do I-you're laughing at me!"

"Nonsense." She looks forward again and dismisses him, still carrying on her way the whole time.

"Hey, look at me." He grabs her shoulder and pulls her, but she ducks down and jolts forwards as she spins around to face him.

"Do you have a problem?"

"Do I have a-I, ugh, you're laughing at me, you bitch!"

"Oh, you motherfu-" She stops herself and breathes, but then she sees his fist wind back, she ducks down again and he swings over her head, then she uppercuts him while he's overextended and knocks him over to the ground. "Asshole! You hit women just for walking past you on the street? What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Jesus, I didn't think you could punch like that." He spits and wipes his mug, then closes his eyes and professes, "I didn't give a shit that you were laughing, I just wanted to rob you 'cause you're so goddamn rich."

"How do you know I'm rich?"

"Look at you! Also, you're Cassandra fucking Nova."

She rolls her eyes. "It's not like I'm that important or anything."

"Are you kidding me? Jesus, you got issues if you don't see how big you're about to be." He shakes his head and looks at the ground. "Jesus, look at me, I sound like some kind of rabid fan."

"Rabid fan, hmm, I like that...well, are you one?"

"No, you're a load of hot air, but, Jesus, you're gonna be one rich bitch."

"Have you seen one of my shows?"

"No!"

"How do you know I'm 'hot air,' then?"

"Get the fuck out of here, let me drink myself to death!"

"Gladly!" She turns around and starts off again. Fucking asshole. Here I was, enjoying my own presence and suddenly, bam! Surprise asshole; secret attack from the land of dicks! She sighs and ruffles her hair with her hands, then swooshes it to both sides with the flick of her wrists, and smiles again. Namaste...I am okay, I am happy, I am at peace with myself and all other things in the world, and I don't want to rip my hair out. As if saying this actually made it true, she continues to smile like nothing's wrong, and enjoying the environment.

She scratches her head and looks around, surveying the land, feeling out everything around her, and breathing quickly. Calm down, um, the Big One! I think it should start out with a duet between me and...Marco! We could sing a soulful song about the woes of surviving in the industry; people hate when artists are self-aware about their condition, they want to pretend like we live in a dream, and popping that would make them uncomfortable right off the bat.

After that, I stand in the center of the stage and get drenched by a giant bomb of black paint, and I stand there in it reveling in my own disgust with the world. No optimism allowed! Good, ground rules, we need more ground rules, uh, no singing that doesn't cause pain to the heart, no dancing that makes people feel free, and no bright colors. Okay, it's a start. Wait, how am I supposed to fly all this by the company? "Fuck me."