Why Do We Kill Our Cinderellas?

 

The horse says you are a spirit walker, the man who has been to the moon and fought the devil but returned unhurt. But I say, C’est Pas Bon, who is that demigod who cannot be caught?

You can break my spirit, but you cannot steal my dream. In this empire, I will not mistake six for nine. I have my shortcomings, but I am sensitive and calculative. I read minds in spirit and flesh, the work of a clergyman and an apostle of the pen. My facts come from the seven heavens. I have trekked around the world on the legs of discipline, and though bad luck once tied my feet, sanity has vindicated me to speak with God.

But here lies the irony: every empire loves to crown a Cinderella, and every empire secretly plots her murder. When a soul rises from the ashes of ridicule, suddenly the knives of envy are sharpened. When a voice grows louder than whispers of the court, silence is purchased with betrayal. And when integrity refuses to be bought, suspension becomes the fashionable gown they dress you in.

Today you may not hear me louder, but tomorrow, voices will echo from the fire. In this hollow empire, I craft my work and sweep streets like Shakespeare, or sing like Leontyne Price at the Metropolitan Opera, not because the empire allows me, but because destiny compels me.

So I ask: why do we kill our Cinderellas? Why do we murder beauty at the hour of its coronation? Perhaps it is because mediocrity fears brilliance the way shadows fear the sun. But every Cinderella slain becomes a ghost that haunts the palace; every dream suppressed becomes an empire’s curse.

And me? I am not dead yet. I am the ghost they could not bury, the dream they could not poison. The empire will learn: you can kill Cinderella, but you cannot stop the ball.