Tuesday, February 10
Feb 10 Tuesday
They always told me to follow my heart...What heart?
I couldn't sleep last night. I woke up at around four in the morning and couldn't close my eyes. I was half asleep, but the feeling in my chest was fully awake. I felt like I needed a hug. Any form of warmth to soothe my aching, writhing soul. I knew it probably had something to do with my 'ability' thing, but...I really did feel that way. I wanted to share so many things with other people - to my friends and family, to let them feel how much I care for and love them. But I knew better. I knew that the closer I get to the people I love, the more pain I cause to them and myself. They would get hurt in so many different ways, and in the end, they all end up regretting to have even met me. How is it that they can forget so easily? And why is it that through the years, I am forced to remember all of the painful things that they ever did to me, and almost always forget the very few happy moments in my life? I can't possibly be angry with them for the things that they can't even remember anymore. And yet, my heart still beats for them, still bleeds for them. They never know how much I wish to help them, to be with them, to see them happy, how much I want to sprout wings and embrace them as they wallow in their trivial sadness. And they never will. All there is for me to do is to cherish the present and watch them grow with and away from me...as I love them from a distance.
After my dad left for his late-night bible seminar, I was left alone at home. In the stillness and silence of our house, I found myself walking into my room and sitting in front of my dresser mirror. The radio was playing My Immortal, and the slow and sad tune started to creep into my very soul. As I was staring at my reflection, my face covered by a curtain of long dark hair, the weight of all my repressed pain and anguish started welling up inside me. Before I could hold them back, tiny streams of burning tears seared their way down my face. How could I let this happen? How could I, an Icequeen, resort to such feeble means of expressing my weakness? But it didn't matter. I stared at myself, looked at myself in the eyes, tears trickling down my immobilized face. I ran my fingers through my slippery dark locks, revealing to myself the ultimate image of my own hidden being. I was looking at the face of a girl, the Cursed Child - so used, so hurt, so stolen, so forgotten, so indescribably sorrowful...and yet...with her ebony hair cascading down her tear-stained face, and her eyes pink and brimming with agony...so beautiful. For the first time in my life, I actually considered myself beautiful.
I held up my hand and touched my cheek. The warmth of my face was soothed by the coolness of my hand. I had kept this part of myself so hidden from others because I didn't want anyone to see, for they would never understand and they would hurt me all over again. They would tell me the same things they have told me for 15 years: that I'm ugly, that I'm weak, that I'm too depressed, that I dwell too much on the past, that I'm too trusting, that I love people too much. I would hide myself behind jokes, laughter, silence, coldness, and sado-masochism. But I would rather wish for my shoulderblades to split open and sprout wings, fly away, retreat into a desolate corner, and cry within the protective folds of my blood-splattered wings.
Someone used to tell me that I looked pretty when I cried. But since that 'someone' is gone forever, I guess no one will ever know.
That's coz I never cry in public. Duh.
Icequeen out.