She always wanted to live in other people’s minds, atleast for a bit. To see how they thought and felt and perceived the world. In her opinion, she wasn’t living right. Too controlling of herself, worrisome, contradicting, emotionless. All she needed was the revelation of sanity or the assurance of individuality. Unlike others, she believed that the person she showed to the world was the only one of importance. The one she kept inside was not revealed, except in rare moments, in which someone close to her would catch her off guard and be exposed to her without the filters she put up, and so they did not matter. They were going to waste. It’s not a good idea, she told herself. But she didn’t care, of course not, she reveled in the dangers she imposed. She enjoyed the risks and the adrenalin rush. Though she wanted a simple life, juxapositionally, she wanted adventure and the thrill of a wild chase. She embraced her insanity and threw herself in the fire. Her world was destroyed and so she picked up the fragmented glass that were her memories. With each one, shards dug into her soul, cutting away from reality, bleeding nostalgia. Sorrow. But it became a drug; with every scrape she lived again, lived a ghost, but that was pennies compared to the gold that is escape. Each slice was stitched with tears that dropped on cotton adorning her mind. A corpse she had begun to become. Frail and weak, gone. Ebbed in the past, sided with her insanity, illusions, disreality. Nothing real was important. The addiction lingered on self absorbed wishes. Breaking the glass would just shatter her into even more pieces. She hoped to be some soul that had jumped off the precipice that was society, dedicating her life as if she was a piece sliding down an assembly line, and was able to fly nonetheless. Growing up, she noticed inquisitively the human condition, and the need to judge and organize and stereotype others. Her life was well met, well lived, so far, she thought, yet the future was thrilling unknown. The minute by minute planning never appealed to her, a girl who ran barefoot in the forests, catching frogs and reading books. She wanted to be important, special, in her own small way. To dive into the dark. To be lit by nothing but your own confidence. To have no fear of the unknown and its beasts. How riveting. The normal middle class lifestyle was never hers, never was wanted to be hers. The thrill of the edge of life made it so much more valuable in her opinion. And so, she felt like a spy, sneaking through with a fire in her heart, as the world tried to quench it. The way she lived, she reveled in social experiments…experiments? Seems too scientific for her liking. Observations, yes, a hint of trenchcoats and Holmes snuck into that word. The human mind, human perception, humanity, the human condition, human behavior…they fascinated her. People fascinated her. She would look out for meaning in every action, every word. Easy it was to her, easy for someone who’s imagination was so incredibly potent, able to perceive the world as others would. Empathetic they say. Always analyzing, her mind swirled at the implications of society. How people act, how people felt, how she felt, her own brain, her own mind. Every aspect was examined closely. She didn’t make ..experiments, it’s not like she forced situations along…but if she had the opportunity why not? Nudge things to her favor, to her liking, see how they play out. She knew a lot more than she showed, and thought she was oh so clever. Also, the person she was with others, was loud, nice, helpful, talkative, funny, interesting…just the person she wanted to be. Yet, alone, she becomes reclusive. Alone, she was able to brood, driving herself insane. Analyzing everything, every moment. Worry seeped into her bones with every thought. Her closest friends would catch her like this, over typed conversations. Yet there was parts of this hidden person she liked. Her depth, wisdom, writing, ideas. She loved new books. She loved rushing to the bookstore for the latest installment. She loved how they smelled, rich and inviting. The waiting for a new book was always interesting. Turning the last page of a cliffhanger novel, gasping breath only to realize another year will pass before you knew what happens next. Her life was measured in books. The year she began to read, the day she owned her first book, first trip to the library, the beginning of a collection. Midnight passing and yet eyes still scurrying across paper. It’s not that she didn’t like old books. She enjoyed the mysterious antiqueness of it all. But they were too boring for her. She lived for ravishing adventures with deep truths. In new books, there was a feeling of being alive. A theme in her life that she almost forced to exist was the day and night, sun and moon, light and dark. To her, they were inspirations. She could write endlessly and paint her imagination with them as her guides. She sorted herself into her morning and night self. She awoke alert, vivid, bright, loud, ecstatic with the sun shining in her eyes. People knew her as eccentric, interesting, effervescent, vivacious. She loved this view of herself, but she knew of their lack of perception. They weren’t seeing the deeper, more mature side. Discontentment. As the day waned, she became quieter. Less words escaped her lips, they were more careful, more chosen. She was more insightful, wise, clever. The dark would settle and so would edges of shadows, but they lingered on a perusing mind, unable to bother her for too long. She laid very late, with the windows open and the calm omniscient moonlight seeping into long remembered dreams. She found the dark and light in all of whom she encountered, her walls were adorned with paintings and poems of sola luna sol lune, as they played many roles. Friends, lovers, siblings, enemies, strangers. Their roles changed as her mind changed. She was life, and this balance was the heart of her. She didn’t believe it was all hidden either…..just no one would try to find it. If no one asks the questions, how will they ever know the answer? In all honesty, she didn’t care a whole lot. Only because of how much she could think was why she thought about it or else it would be out of her mind. She wasn’t used to it, and so it amused her. She thought she would have simply tied tightly instead of loosely. However, she just didn’t know how to. Yet she admired herself so, for being able to find firm footing in her daze, a fog that illusioned what she thought was reality. In all honestly, she didn’t care at all.
She realized too late the dangers of being amiable, complacent. Her own views no longer mattered. The greater good, compromise, agreement came before personal wants and needs. It’s alright, it’s okay, no I’m fine, I didn’t care anyways became her responses. Brushed aside everything she felt, everyone else came first. She dared not to let sorrow or anger show, for others seemed to find it unacceptable to see anything but a smile on her visage. And to act on her whims? They condemned her so, not realizing that their own self propellation was the cause to her abrupt change. She doubt they understand how precious the few vibrant veins that rarely echoed through were to her, already surpressed by time and mind. She quickly apologizes for caring and voicing how she felt and returned to her yes of course’s and no it’s okay’s. She cursed at herself. Of course they knew, how could she think any differently? She was a spy, thinking she was so stealthy, subtle, invisible. When really, she was a big bright pink polka dotted blimp that everyone could see mock and laugh. She laid in bed and realized how much more she was valued than she valued. It was not vanity, simply anther fact she discovered, an idea she turned over for a while and only now, under the iridescent moon and the chatter of ducks did she accept it. The thought did not bring her perverse pleasure, instead irreversible sorrow. Once more, she was unsure. Leaving gave her solid ground, absolutes. Now the old wounds are reopened, now she could return. Both ways were so tempting, either one could end horribly or wonderfully. She hated not knowing, choosing between right and wrong was only easy when you knew which one was which. With a sigh, she decided it wasn’t her decision, atleast not solely, to make. And so she waited to ask the only other person who’s opinion mattered. There’s a girl fighting in the morning to see what she has is real. That all she has been working for was unbroken, made free. She ran out. Ran out of reasons to continue. It was quite annoying actually. Once again, the block was here. She couldn’t keep thinking because she hit a wall. She lost her assertiveness, her way, her ideas. Stuck. Writing all these nonsensical words that mean a nothing to her. But honestly, she finds pride in it all. How she’s able to magically string words to make a song . A pure melody. Unaware of the consequences, just free. How free? She looked critically at her. Her natural need to define everything made her blurt what she did, though she knew it would not be well received. “Spooked. That’s the word. You’re spooked, you are spooked so easily. And when you’re spooked, you run.” The answer to these statements were long waited. She turned over each word, digesting its value. She waited, looking over what she said at well, wondering what she would say. Finally, “you’re right. Are you happy?” She slowly shook her head and whispered gently yet passionately. “of course not,’ a sad smile in her eyes, ‘I’m spooked too.”