That Dark Piece Of You
Once upon a time, not so long ago, in a city not far away from yours, I knew a girl of an age much younger than yours. She was that bright picture of a person who managed to keep her head above the waters even when the waves came crashing in.
But under that strong facade she was only a vulnerable, broken soul who could barely manage to shield her scars from the brutality of the world. Her scars, so conspicuous, yet so obvious.
She'd harmlessly pull the sleeves of her shirt to her palms. "It's so cold," she'd say, but, the truth was, she'd been covering up the marks on the insides of her wrist from those dark nights when she couldn't hold up the show of strength, and marked herself up in a way no different than the spider's web in the unreachable corner of your ceiling.
The masses, each face, known unknown, continue to shrug off her demons on the account of her indifferent exterior which successfully fooled people into believing that she wasn't a girl afraid of the dark and the monsters it brings. These monsters walk the world in broad daylight, unseen by you and me but always lurking on the fringes of the human mind, occupying that small corner hidden from our eyes.
I can do nothing but hope that you do realise that this young girl I talk about is that very part of us which we push back to the depths of our conscious mind, too intimidated to bare ourselves to anyone in the fear of being the object of gossip at the evening tea or at the hushed conversation at high school cafeteria tables.
Sadly, we do not realise that this very piece of us is the most lethal one we carry around. That, today, it is a poor soul weeping into the pillow, but one fine day it will come out, lashing with swords out, shattering our minds beyond the reaches of sanity.
But under that strong facade she was only a vulnerable, broken soul who could barely manage to shield her scars from the brutality of the world. Her scars, so conspicuous, yet so obvious.
She'd harmlessly pull the sleeves of her shirt to her palms. "It's so cold," she'd say, but, the truth was, she'd been covering up the marks on the insides of her wrist from those dark nights when she couldn't hold up the show of strength, and marked herself up in a way no different than the spider's web in the unreachable corner of your ceiling.
The masses, each face, known unknown, continue to shrug off her demons on the account of her indifferent exterior which successfully fooled people into believing that she wasn't a girl afraid of the dark and the monsters it brings. These monsters walk the world in broad daylight, unseen by you and me but always lurking on the fringes of the human mind, occupying that small corner hidden from our eyes.
I can do nothing but hope that you do realise that this young girl I talk about is that very part of us which we push back to the depths of our conscious mind, too intimidated to bare ourselves to anyone in the fear of being the object of gossip at the evening tea or at the hushed conversation at high school cafeteria tables.
Sadly, we do not realise that this very piece of us is the most lethal one we carry around. That, today, it is a poor soul weeping into the pillow, but one fine day it will come out, lashing with swords out, shattering our minds beyond the reaches of sanity.
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