A sad boy I know described another boy as a “God Among Men.”
The statement was laced with jealousy as he writhed in his own mess of critical self evaluation, lacerated by his lady love’s unabashed admiration for someone else. He compared himself to this false God and found sorrow in his envy.
Beauty is not a physical quality.
You can be gangly with a big nose – it doesn’t matter. If you are passionate about your life’s purpose, then you are beautiful. If you are skipping towards the person you want to become, then you are beautiful.
The false God picked me up in the middle of a street.
We were crossing the road and a tall handsome man walked towards us. Suddenly my friend was squealing and hugging him. I didn’t know him. I thought we were going to go see a show her ex was in – I had no idea who this guy was.
So naturally, I threw out my arms and declared: “Hugs!”
This stranger plucked me up in the middle of the street and spun me around. I was so high off the ground. It was wonderful.
I wanted to be his friend.
Months later we went to her ex’s house warming party and I saw the false God sitting by himself on the couch. I took the opportunity. I grabbed my piece of cake, perched down next to him, and smiled. I approached him with the honesty of my attention.
The way he looked at me that night was horrible.
I saw a perspective reflected in his eyes. I was another one of the faceless mob that chased after him, panting to strip him of his pants and ride him like a trick pony. He had no desire to know me because he had me all figured out.
At that moment I knew I had to ignore him.
To get his attention I had to pretend he was nothing.
After all, one can’t chase men with legs that long.
They only grow when watered with honesty.
To be a God Among Men is to be surrounded by false behavior.
To be a God Among Men is to wear a mask.
Masks can be burned.
At an event I was bent over a table, chatting with friends while presenting a lovely view to the rest of the room. The sad boy, seeing the level of my physical affection with my friends, made an assumption.
He thought it was okay to molest me.
He came over, grabbed my hips, and rubbed up against my derriere.
“Do not want,” I paused for a moment, palms in the air to stop myself from driving an elbow into his gut. He was dating my friend. It was a swanky event. If I could manage it, I would rebuke the sad boy without hurting him, without causing a scene. “Do. Not. Want.”
He didn’t let go of me.
The false God was there within seconds.
He slipped in, wrapped his arms about me and swept me right on out of the situation. He enveloped me in the glory of his focused attention until the sad boy was good and gone, then danced off to not so superstitiously flirt with other women when he thought the gazes of past conquests were turned elsewhere.
To him this was nothing, a momentary interruption.
To me this was the only time a man had ever saved me.
I have always had to rescue myself.
Since that first party in college, where a drunk frat boy grabbed my braid and drag me by my hair, I have been on my guard. I am the one who physically protects my friends. I am the one who lays down the boundaries, communicates clearly, yet prepares to strike at the weak spots.
In my experience, men have never been saviors.
I’m the only one who has ever come to my rescue.
That is, until I met the false God.
Yet he doesn’t know that.
He didn’t see his own magnificence.
An act that is casual and meaningless to one, can deliver a deep emotional impact on another. It can make a woman look at you and think: “He is everything a man should be.”
Or it can crush her.
The false God has never hurt me.
It is strange. I am exactly the kind of woman who would be wounded by him. But my dreams told me exactly what I was dealing with.
My dreams told me to keep my panties on.
So I never took his flirtations seriously.
Not like other women.
Other women that he lacerated.
The false God doesn’t see the full impact of his actions. He doesn’t see his glory or his shame. He doesn’t understand the severity of the damage he does to others, and to himself, with his games. He doesn’t see the bitter women and angry men in his wake – people who could have helped his career instead of hurt it. People who would have raised him up high if only they could worship the one he will become, instead of being bruised by the little boy who treats women like video game achievements.
To be a “God Among Men” is to exist without sight.
It is to be blind to the world around you.
To be this world you must learn to see.
You must grow with awareness.
So how do you do it?
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