Prisoner in a gilded cage

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“A delicate soul with a profound mind, I knew where I was going wrong and where I could hurt myself, yet I walked on the agonizing path. It seemed I deliberately wanted to feel the intensity of pain, and wished to understand how an inviolable mind like myself could be destroyed.” – The girl with lips like cherry blossom.

Sixteen and immature – two different words yet forming a mirror image. Back then she was young, and hadn’t learned how to overcome being powerless. Body, mind and soul, three diverging parts of her, collectively ripped off from her. He robbed her charm and spirit, her youth. She didn’t know how to shield her heart, but handing him over the keys, how could she be so naïve, she asked herself.

Today she has imprisoned her volatile chest, nobody could enter and she could not escape. Rapunzel without her golden hair, locked inside her tower of woe, being her own Mother Gothel. She came in terms with her own desolation.

A lonely little Petunia

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“Being in isolation is like being in a placid dream. You know you are dreaming and you know you will wake up soon, so you take the serenity in, while it lasts. But you’re not waking up, you’re unable to, no matter how many doors you exit, you’re still asleep. You can’t wake up.”

It was 2:51 am and she couldn’t sleep. She was wide awake. She felt drained out but she couldn’t sleep. Her thoughts were constantly keeping her from resting that night. She knew it wasn’t the first time that this was happening.

A barren chest with a hollow heart, so empty, and vulnerable. “This unguarded heart will accept who is ready to show warmth, even the criminal who stole the shield away”, she thought. And she had no idea how to bring back the pieces. He took away everything. Every last piece of happiness. And the worst of all, she had no body to share this with. This is the loneliest feeling in the world, she thought, wanting to open up but having nobody to open up to, not even your mother. She believed she was in the need of cigarettes to lower down her anxiety, but she had smoked the last one.

Tears were pouring down her face, one by one, and she was still unable to comprehend reasons. Her thoughts were moving from one dimension to other, what it could be, making her cry at 2:53 am. Didn’t she voluntarily exile herself?

It was 2:54 am and she still couldn’t stop crying. “ANNA, stop!”, she yelled in the pounding silence waiting for the scream to hit her back. She was in a desperate need for attention although she knew that if she had it, eventually it will come crippling down again, piece by piece. Why wish for something that lasts momentarily? A few days of rejoice will bring her a hundred days of regret.

Staring at the dark ceiling she wondered if it were the cigarettes that she needed or perhaps, a stronger chemical compound than nicotine. Did she need Serotonin? Did she, in her loneliest hour, come to an agreement with her chaotic conviction that she craved for affection? A person, a human being. ‘A sentimental acknowledgement of her existence.’ Oh, what’s a stronger drug than love?

Anna’s Maker

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Not having a lot of friends after turning into an adult, keeping herself away from the pretentious world she lived in, she thought if it was practically possible to fear happiness. How could it be reasonable for a girl in her 20s to show signs of such complexities when she is yet to nurture? Did she crave for more drama inside her tiny little world or was it conveniently possible to have a shallow need for showcasing happiness, she frequently asked herself and yet wanted to be loved by her own blood. What confused her to a larger extent was if the emptiness inside her was because she knew the taste of once lost love at an early age or was it because she never tasted it at all. Her thoughts were destructive.

Not being loved by your own mother, for those who know how that is, understand the pain. She hoped that nobody did. She was stuck on the thought of how can the person who had her inside her womb for nine months not love her in spite of her faults and weaknesses? Oh, that bloated tummy, why wasn’t she buried in it? Could it be because she didn’t want her in the first place? Well, there’s no absolute way to know that, is there? All she could ever ask for was some appreciation or some kindness, but all she got was her wrath. It’s damaging, she thought. Could it be the reason of the inception of her phobia?

“She unsees my tears. Sometimes I doubt if I really am her blood, but genetics don’t lie, unfortunately. Day after day, I look more like her, but I dread the day I would actually become like her. Unkind, unappreciative to your own child. I could never do that to my child”, said Anna. To whom? Who else, but to her own depressing reflection that damaged her yet comforted her. She knew she lived in reality, as happiness soon comes to an end bringing a drastic downfall with it. She was delighted to have ease with the most impenetrable feeling.