I paint myself in words like an ancient priest donning ceremonial robes, each syllable a carefully chosen thread in my linguistic finery. My sentences arc and flow – sometimes bold as thunder, sometimes soft as morning mist – all woven from the raw silk of my desperate longing to be seen, to be known, to be held in the light of another’s understanding.
See how I dance in these garments of language, crafting beauty from the void. I scatter my phrases like stained glass in sunlight: Loud. Soft. Pretty. Provocative. Each fragment designed to catch the eye, to spark a flame of recognition in passing minds. I build cathedrals of meaning, their spires reaching toward connection, their foundations sunk deep in the bedrock of my most primitive need:
Will someone please like me?
And so we ask, as you hold these words like jewels to the light – what veils of language do we wrap ourselves in? What beautiful disguises have we crafted from the raw material of our own longing?