SELF PORTRAIT

Indecisive, uncertain, insecure, doubtful, unreliable, inhibited girl. Passionate rarely, apathetic mostly, lacking always.  Empathetic, nice, numb, sad. Grateful, undisciplined quitter. Heavy, shy, thoughtful, realistic. Logical, submissive, obedient, void. Soulful, selective, salient, secretive writer. Strange, different, proud, honest. Alone in a world of surrogate fillers; illusions of completeness.

Tiptoeing  around self loathing while free-falling in love with myself everyday. A recipe for disillusionment from a world of hypocrisy and tainted truths. A child in the commoners’ eyes, and a troubled mismanaged old soul in reality. Drama queen at best, possible proof that i am mislead by my youth after all. I dream of becoming a dreamer, but dreaming is escaping reality. So i dwell in the mess of that truth, a form of wreckage that people run away from by chasing their dreams. Happiness is not in those dreams but in making peace with what reality offers.

Pursuing a purpose, a meaning and a reason, but i have no clue still. Contrary to usual tendencies, the last thing i want is to live forever; the idea is as troubling as it is infinite and whole. I want to know every step of the way that i am getting closer to an end that should answer all my questions.

An over analyzing hopeless romantic. An endless dreamer and a simple – minded wide hearted being. The only way i understand reality is through the magic of my soul. The only reason i identify sadness is because natural joy floods me. The print of every word i write is a breath so involuntary that it surprises me every time. This cruelty of a mind molded both by experience and the lack of it is always heavy; except redeeming truth flowing out of my fingertips lifts me up every time.

My words are salty and moist, they sting when the wound is open; yet they heal when my world runs dry. My words stray but they always come back to comfort me. They prove to me that a voice is only beautiful when it is soulful and true. I sail and i listen to people’s stories knowing that mine belongs to these words. The day i ran to my notebook instead of a person, i gave those words absolute power and i rendered myself a mere messenger.

Simplicity finds me as i end this text; i believe its time i let go and surface.

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