The deep divers

For years I thought that maybe I was weak. Because I didn't live life like others. For years I thought that maybe I was broken. My life missed the external skeleton others seem to have so easily.. For years others thought me eccentric, because my priorities differed from theirs. For years I thought I lacked bravery, because I didn't show up every day in a shiny armour, waving my weapons around. For years I thought I had more downfalls than most, because I could not pretend to have the qualities they spoke of.

But now, as I grow older I wonder.... What's braver than showing up dressed as you, when so much of the world walks around as in a masquerade? Does my life really lack substance, just because I failed to give it a shape everyone else seems to recognise easily? And what do words mean anyway, when actions fail to support them? 

Now I am able to value the fact that I have always been honest with myself. That I never let the image of the person I wanted to believe overpower the person I really was. That if I judged myself harshly was not because I was any less than others, but often because others just didn't go that deep. 

Shallow waters are not for me. I refuse to spend my days embellishing the surface, staying untouchable, irreproachable. I will dive deep and get seaweed on my hair and sand in my face. I will look messier but live more intensely. And I will find my tribe there, amongst the deep divers, the messy haired souls, the ones who dare taking on the consequences of being alive and truthful.