The face in the mirror. Often I have stared blankly at the mirror. Staring at that face, wondering who it is. Why would anybody ask such a dumb question? Why would somebody want to wonder who they are? I shrug at questions like those and avert my attention back to it. That face. I know who it is, but do I know the person? The person behind the face.
Many say that I am a good girl. The good girl. That is me. The only problem I have with that is that I do not want to be a “good girl”. The thought drags my spirit into the depths of my black pools. The sun vanishes from my day the black pool pushes my spirit down. Swamping me until I feel dead and bleak.
I see the girl I want to be in my past. She laughs and seems to be walking on a cloud. Her face is radiant and her eyes glitter. Everywhere she turns people smile. She has the ‘I don’t care what you think’ dressing style. And her hair needs to be treated. Yet, everything suits her. The lavender amongst the daffodils.
Then I see another girl, with the same face. She strolls around without the radiant smile. Her eyes glimmer. She seems detached to the life around her. Trapped in the notebook of her mind. Writing down the way she feels. Her mood is undefined. At times she looks up from the writing and notices the movement about, and she realises that there is some form of life. One she is not aware of at all, because she does not understand it.
The vision is blurred by a tear. I wipe away the shattered drops and see the vision changing. The face, tear-coated, is line with hurt and pain of the soul. The wrenching pain she feels is so visible. Too visible. I want to turn away, but I am drawn by the scene. Those hidden tears slip down onto her hands. Some stay glued to her eyelashes. What could it be that causes her to cry? To cry in private whenever she feels the need to be miserable. Her feelings of disbelief as her family bestow the love she has craved as a child. Just like a child craves sweets. The sweets she never had.
She is a mature girl. Or, so they say. She looks at screaming girls and fighting boys with boredom and distaste. The boys at school are too immature for her. It is written on her face as she regards them. What causes someone to be so cold towards others? The cold, when inside, the love, warmth and tenderness burns like a roaring veld fire.
Then I see the same girl. She is in my mirror. She is me. I battle day after day to be the real me. And again I ask: “who is Me?”
If I don’t know who I am, how can anyone else? Yes, maybe I do want to be a “good girl”.
I look at the face in the mirror. She is smiling, and her eyes glitter. She is me.
Many say that I am a good girl. The good girl. That is me. The only problem I have with that is that I do not want to be a “good girl”. The thought drags my spirit into the depths of my black pools. The sun vanishes from my day the black pool pushes my spirit down. Swamping me until I feel dead and bleak.
I see the girl I want to be in my past. She laughs and seems to be walking on a cloud. Her face is radiant and her eyes glitter. Everywhere she turns people smile. She has the ‘I don’t care what you think’ dressing style. And her hair needs to be treated. Yet, everything suits her. The lavender amongst the daffodils.
Then I see another girl, with the same face. She strolls around without the radiant smile. Her eyes glimmer. She seems detached to the life around her. Trapped in the notebook of her mind. Writing down the way she feels. Her mood is undefined. At times she looks up from the writing and notices the movement about, and she realises that there is some form of life. One she is not aware of at all, because she does not understand it.
The vision is blurred by a tear. I wipe away the shattered drops and see the vision changing. The face, tear-coated, is line with hurt and pain of the soul. The wrenching pain she feels is so visible. Too visible. I want to turn away, but I am drawn by the scene. Those hidden tears slip down onto her hands. Some stay glued to her eyelashes. What could it be that causes her to cry? To cry in private whenever she feels the need to be miserable. Her feelings of disbelief as her family bestow the love she has craved as a child. Just like a child craves sweets. The sweets she never had.
She is a mature girl. Or, so they say. She looks at screaming girls and fighting boys with boredom and distaste. The boys at school are too immature for her. It is written on her face as she regards them. What causes someone to be so cold towards others? The cold, when inside, the love, warmth and tenderness burns like a roaring veld fire.
Then I see the same girl. She is in my mirror. She is me. I battle day after day to be the real me. And again I ask: “who is Me?”
If I don’t know who I am, how can anyone else? Yes, maybe I do want to be a “good girl”.
I look at the face in the mirror. She is smiling, and her eyes glitter. She is me.
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