If I were a picture I’d belong to one of the grayscale 1940s, standing up straight, eyes straight to the camera, lips tight, frown eternal. If it was a moving silent video, the laugh, though soundless, would still be fake and plastic.
There would be nothing to hide behind the frown. It was of anger, discontent, and general bitterness. It was of trying to hide the pain. Isn’t it a wonder how it is so much easy to be angry than to be hurt?
A little girl watching other babies staring far out windows and smiling at strangers. Envying the cheerful giggles, wanting to own them for herself. She would only smile, and later on, afford a grimace. Love was of a scarcity in her house. She would rather watch on random strangers, take pictures of other people’s happy moments and paste them up together, wishing that her own life was like that. And in the midst of the joyous moment, she would look up to the people dear to her. She wondered who would be there.
There was no conclusion, only blurred faces and the dark chaotic unknown. Life is nothing but false hopes and wishful thinking.
And it is then that I have found a large demon in my potbelly. It is terribly sad and lonely and like a black hole it cannot be appeased.
Of the love and compassion it has been deprived of, it is now taking – in quantities unhealthy – love and compassion from those willing to give.
Can we heal the beast, so that it will return into the little girl who, on her graduation day, just wants to look back and have and see someone willing to honestly celebrate her happiness with her, in all that she is and all that she will be.
She is now letting her tears fall. And if yesterday they could be wiped dry with her hands, tonight they seem to be an endless pool of sorrow.
Hush little girl, I will be your own embrace.
