by Diovanni Lemans15 Feb 2014
What a torturous sublime it is to feel as though you have finally come even an ocean's breadth close to becoming the jewel you always desired to be. To almost feel the shore of the island that was once a far off mirage of an idea you had dreamt you could possibly become, and had never thought you'd actually achieve. The sweet sand like crushed pearls beneath your feet, and the lick of the nostalgic waves at your heels weakening, as you step into your own self-actualization, finally loving the divine creation that is you in its entirety.
And then upon arrival at this realization's shore, another realization abounds: that the jewel which you fought tooth, nail, and fire, with unbridled weeping tear to forge out of the barren soil of your former self, that even after all this turmoil within the ravine of your soul, the jewel you have become is undesirable? That all those hours of disdaining the image that stared back at you in the mirror, almost mocking you with its silent acceptance of its own inadequacy, were a waste? That you daily reached deep into the sovereign darkness that was an unspeakable depression and degradation of your own ego, trying to tear out something that was worthwhile and good and worthy of love, only to see that the flesh you turned into a jewel is still unwanted? What a sublime, indeed.
For here you are, precious! A gem in your eyes, of unmatched luster and unquestionable shine, set apart from all other jewels. You hold your head high against all critique. In your eyes, none can catch the light of the sun quite like you can. A true jewel to be acquired. But what is an opal to a ruby, and what is a ruby to a diamond? All distinct, yes, perfect and marvelous, but equal in desire?
Should I be foolish to hold such stock in desire? Might I simply stand present, though solitary, in my self-desire? Or is the want for reciprocation of the appreciation of the jewel that is me inevitable? Why is it not enough that I be enough for me? I always thought that self-love could prevail as a strident force against all odds, and until this moment was proven right. The blossom of my own self-love was an unbeatable shield, protector, and guardian against those who would seek to be gleeful at my downfall and failures. I was victorious, because I loved me without end. But now, upon reflection, I ask myself, am I wrong to want for someone to love me with the strength that I love me? To admire me in all I am with the same power that I adore myself?
Should a jewel be content within appreciating its own shine? Should I be satisfied simply with the knowledge that I am blessed and wonderful? The jewel knows it is beautiful; I need not for someone to inform me of my own beauty; I've already conquered that journey. I need for someone to say that they love it too, that they, like I, find it precious, and worth loving, and adequate.
True. A jewel does not seek, it is assuredly to be sought. But who is searching, who is looking, seeking? Despite me loving me, who is going to love me alongside myself?