Rock on Sister!

I cannot bring it down less than 857 words. Chop up as you please, lovers.

Rock on sister!
I see her across from me in the library, like a butterfly in the midst of a swarm of bees. She is wearing a beautiful long sea blue skirt that might have been bought at Loose Lucy’s, her hair in a blue bandana, wonderfully matching her indigo slippers. At once I find myself awed, where otherwise I would not have been, at a mere expression of self. Quickly after the shock of her beauty wares off, a compelling urge to speak to her comes to me – the same sort of urge one gets when they are physically attracted to a stranger. And as anyone awed by the beauty of a stranger, I felt that time is of the essence. There is only a small window in which I can approach this beautiful female, and I must act fast. As I conjure the ridiculous excuse I am about to use to speak to her, I realize that it is not her aesthetics, nor her style that I am attracted to, merely her difference.
In my travels I have noticed beautiful idiosyncrasies in people’s ‘style’. Neither culture nor the belittling glares of the old quelled these expressions. From eclectic fabric taste to hair styles and colors these New Yorkers, Bristolians, Amestramers, and Berlinians to name a few dressed exactly how THEY would dress. What attracted me was their ‘flipping off’ of homogeneity, their statement: ‘this is how I want to look,’ and the courage they display in expressing it. At first I was attracted aesthetically, that is until I realized their freedom.
And here I was, in the library, drooling over a person simply for a difference that was honestly not that ‘marginal’. It was her strategic position, in the midst of a swarm of orange and purple bees that made her the beautiful goddess I saw her as. And so I give the bees a chance. I look for a shred of beauty that goes beyond the physical, a sign of carefree self expression and I find none. The only difference was that a few bees belonged to social organizations as was advertized on their uniforms, segregating bee from bee, an illusory effect that did not escape my quick eye. And I wonder, what makes a person abjectly conform to a certain mode of expression that quells their true emotions?
I am aware that every experience creates a sensory path in my brain, and when faced with an interaction that begs my reaction, my understanding of the situation deliberates with my memories, and I act in a manner so fundamentally personal that even I cannot explain. My experiences have shaped my reality, and therefore push me to express myself in the only way I can. This is not a personal phenomenon of mine; we all operate in the same way. Since what shapes you is a collection of personal experiences that can never be mimicked, your choices ought to be different than that of others. One would not be expressing otherwise; to say the least they would be conforming.
If one wants to conform, and knowingly follows a path of impersonal expression, then who am I to criticize? I do not, this message is not for the beautiful conforming bee that is at peace with her conformity; it is for the bee that would love to wear bright leggings under a dark miniskirt, or the bee that would have an electro-mullet if not for the scrutiny of others. This message in essence is sister, rock on and be free. Do not be influenced by the meaningless opinions of others, distinguish and express yourself, for before long the need for bread will force you to conform. I want to notice you, marvel at your expression, and fall in love with your choices. Realize what it is that you truly feel to be and be it, for the uniqueness of yourself expression will undoubtedly be beautiful. And what to you is more beautiful than your own self, expressed unquestioned and accepted at it is?
Why drown yourself in sea of similar faces, unnoticed and mistaken for millions of your bee comrades? Why limit yourself to a uniform that says nothing about you but your uniformity? Where are the punks, gutter punks, the ravers, the hipsters, the hippies, the scenesters, the camouflaged, the trench coaters, the pierced up, the tattooed, the slick backs, the break-dancers, the goths, the parkourers, and the eccentrics of Clemson? Why are they so far out and in between that they stand out like a sore thumb in this atmosphere of homogeneity? If you have not discovered your uniqueness then search for it, it will be the greatest discovery you’ve ever made. If you have decided that a uniformed bee is what you feel to be, then by all means be it. Just make sure you are true to yourself, that your choice to conform is rationally deliberated. To the beautiful heroine of my story, the butterfly of my world I say: rock on sister. And to the bee that is at peace with herself I also say rock on sister.