Finding Hope in an Inkblot Masterpiece

I am Frankenstein’s monster— a tired traveler yearning to break free from this cage, this lonely overpopulated world. Here, I stand in a crowded grocery store listening to people yell and scream and walk right into me as if I’m not even there. No apologies, No turned heads, only an elderly man sprinting towards the beer aisle like it was the finish line of a marathon while I’m left alone on a dirty floor that hasn't been mopped since last Tuesday. I guess never leave a man behind doesn't apply here. I am Dorian Gray, and while my body appears young the hidden portrait hanging in my attic shows otherwise. Although I may not be covered with the burdens of sin and my own selfishness, I am covered with the wrinkles of disappointment and hopelessness printed on the front page of Newsday. Each day I feel myself grow older inside, and I am disgusted by the mirror that stands before me—the way my long hair and curvy body can land me a job before they even take a glance at my résumé. I too have a beautiful mind and soul to offer the world, but it seems no one cares to undress that side of me. I am Walt Whitman, Allen Ginsberg, Frank O’Hara. I am Emily Dickinson, and Sylvia Plath too. I am a writer with a wandering mind and a terrible sense of direction. I inhale the negative energy that surrounds me, and hold it between the spaces of my lungs. After a few moments, I exhale and allow the energy to pour out of me like an overflowing waterfall after the storm. I can feel each overwhelming thought escape my mind and find its way onto the blank white sheet before me. I see the people gather around the falls, stepping back from reality for a few quiet seconds as I raise a completed verse up to the sunlight. Inkblots and all, I have never seen anything so beautiful.