- That Girl who is not me -


Her tragedy.


She has never known love from up close,
When it has been lurking around, stalking stealthily,
She has never known everlasting friendship,
When it has been laughing at her from a near distance.


HatredXLove.


She hates gern. Easily, freely.  
Because people are cold. But. She hates to hate.
She wants love. She won’t get any. She won’t give herself any.
But. She loves endlessly. Compassion. Caring feelings for the fellow.
And hate gets in the way, here and then.


Dreams are real.


That is what she wants to believe. Such a childish hope.
Anything is better than reality. Because it’s boring. Empty.
But he makes it easier to conceive, a life without dreams...
He’s she’s dream alive. Together, they reinvent the world. Every day.


Her other tragedy.


The only person she ever loved so,
He’s not where he should be. Or she’s where she shouldn’t be.
They are not where they wanted to be,
The only person she ever knew so,
He’s close to her heart. Or she’s close to his.
From afar.
They are. But they want to be.


Words as weapons.


Of mass destruction.
They injure. They break: They heal. They make.
It goes both ways; it all depends of the use. And the user.
She knows that well. She’s not afraid to use that power;
She’s afraid of the use people make of it.
Because, in very truth, humans are idiots.
They just love to break.


Guilty.


Guilty of insanity,
Guilty of randomness and childishness,
Guilty of rejecting the dull and the boring,
Guilty of detesting conformity,
Guilty of sympathy and empathy,
Guilty of laziness,
Guilty of good will -despite the laziness-,
Guilty of repressing routine,
Guilty of being indecisive,
Guilty of so many things,
Guilty, guilty, guilty! She is.


Forsaken.


One in the crowd, but lonely. Incredibly lonely. Indescribably lonely...
She walks her solitary path, condemned to that fate,
This fate she never would have chosen,
If she had been given the choice...


The Listener Type.


She doesn’t like to talk much.
People like to tell you to shut up anyway. She does.
But not because she’s told to. She just likes it.
Quietness is just so comfortable...
But if you have a story to tell, she’ll gladly listen to it,
It makes her laugh, dream, cry,
As long as it’s not lost somewhere.
As long as it’s not kept inside.
She’ll be there to listen.


Death.


Such a mysterious thing. Such a mystical thing.
It fascinates her,
Because she doesn’t understand how it works.
But she’ll find out eventually. She’s not in a hurry.
As long as her life is not too long;
She’d hate to live old enough,
To see all the people she loves die before she does...


Some dads are useless.


Not all of them. But some...
Her dad was a jerk. And still is.
She has seen a lot of others similar, too.
She never really had a masculine figure in her life,
And the one she had for a while, and liked,
Betrayed her.
Now she has a grudge against him. And can’t trust dads too much.
Well, most of them...
A few are trustworthy,
She as always dreamed of having a dad like these rare ones.


Popularity.


She never was popular, and probably never will be.
Because popular things, especially people,
Make her feel sick. Uncomfortable. Unfamiliar.
It is that aversion for popular things (and people),
That pushed her to shut herself in,
And refuse to be another someone else.
Because common tastes don’t taste the same.


*Tomboyprincess.


As far as she could remember,
She had never liked dresses and skirts;
Too loose, uncomfortable, feminine.
She had never liked make-up;
Too fake, a pain to take care of, feminine.
She had never liked putting her hair up;
Too long, complicated, feminine.
She liked jewels though. And not.
Only once in a while, and not too many.
Depends which, really.


*OnceInALifetimeNight (and all that crap).


And so, that night, she wore a dress,
An emerald colored, crinolined and gypsy like one,
(That she had chosen on her own),
She put on some make-up,
(On the request of her mom),
She wore her handmade and original earrings and necklace,
(That she had bought and which she was so proud of),
And had her hair fixed nicely in the back of her head,
(Into a mass of cutesy goodness);
She had never felt so beautiful in her entire life,
(but she could’ve done without the make-up and the coiffure, really),
For that once in a lifetime night,
And yet, although people admitted her beauty,
She had no prince to kiss, or dance with,
No prince to hold her hand, tell her she is the most beautiful or to carry her home.
None.
That is when she decided that fairytales are lies.


-Religion.


Down on her knees, in front of her bed,
She would whisper a prayer, every night,
And wish for the well being of her people, before falling asleep;
Sometimes, without really knowing why,
She would selfishly ask favours,
To who? She is not sure.
Sometimes, with the best of intentions,
She would selfishly ask for good things to happen,
To who? She doesn’t know.
But always, without giving anything in return...
And more often than not, without getting any results.


-Change of mind.


But then, at some part of her life,
She decided for herself that it was not for her,
And so, she stopped praying.
And gradually, she stopped believing.
If he is so loving, then why had he brought her nothing but misfortune?
If he is so concerned, then why so many atrocities?
We are also concerned,
We are all part of the problem,
Just some people more than others;
It is not only in religion that she has given up hopes,
But also in humans, in this world,
She’s confused, she cannot understand.
Why keep on killing if we know it’s bad?
Why closing our eyes on the great crisis of our planet, countries?
...
But no matter what, she wants to live.
She wants to live to see things through, even if they are ugly.

“She may not be suited for life, but life seems to be suited for her”.(1)


+Nostalgia.


She keeps very little memories of her past,
Not by choice; it just evaporates from her mind,
Along with the fading seconds of time.
But once in a while, a memory would come back,
Often random ones, ones that she had long forgotten,
Triggered by some unknown force that is not her’s:
Her memories are in all of those who
Took them along when they left,
Shared them with her,
Saw her be for a moment of their life...
She wants to remember, really.
But whenever she tries, nothing will come to mind,
It is as if her memory is selective,
And would remember only what it wants.
She has lost her control over them...
“She is everywhere she went and lived and was for a moment,
In everyone who liked her presence and loved and cherished her,
She is the memory...”


+Future.


In the future, she will:
Be a loving wife, and take good care of her husband,
Have two or three children, but not just one (because being alone is lonely),
Have a more or less stable job she likes,
Travel a lot to discover new things and have fun,
Teach her children things of life, even though teaching is not her thing,
Play and think and stay like a kid (because adults are too serious),
Simply enjoy life...
In other words,
She will be everything she thought she could never be.
...
She will die in winter, on a snowy night,
Sitting comfortably near a fireplace;
She will return to the season that gave her birth,
Glad that she could live for a moment with the people she loved,
Happy that she gave birth to children who will enjoy life.
She will disappear in a snowstorm, slowly, until just a silhouette remains,
She will look back and shed tears because she will have to leave,
And she will wish for the happiness of those she loves and loved,
And then become one with the wind, with the snow...

On cold winter nights, you will be able to hear her gentle whisper carried by the wind:

“I am not where I was anymore, but I am always everywhere you are and that is called Memories”(2)