She was tired. And she wondered, why? Privileged beyond dreams and loved beyond words. Then why this fragility, like a paper doll – one blow and she would drift away. Neither the will to drown nor the strength to surface. She was stuck. Somewhere in between. But no one saw it. No one saw the struggle, the indecisiveness, or how draining it was. All about her was misunderstood: her silence, her words, her ink spilled on pages – the shaky parts and the smudged ones.
She would run, but she had nowhere to go. She had a universe in her head – one that didn’t exist in reality. She understood that. Maybe that’s why she was in so much pain. She wasn’t from here. She was too human for this world, too real to be satisfied by luxury. She craved simplicity: the smell of books, the pouring rain, the feel of grass between her toes, the chill of a late winter night, the laugh of a crackling fire, or the warm embrace of love. She was torn between who she was and who everyone wanted her to be. She couldn’t be that. It was wearing her down. She wanted to block it all out. Even her own reflection.
She thought maybe she needed an escape, from her own head. And so she wrote. Wrote for the world to see. She dared to put her soul on paper, much like the first time one dares to take off their clothes in front of someone. There is some trust in that. But that only made her feel exposed. She felt utterly naked. The eyes of those that suddenly owned her, pierced through her like a thousand needles. Here too, she was being examined and scrutinized. Not for her writing, but her intentions: like labeling the act of true love as harlotry. She realized too soon – her escape was another hell.
Sometimes, she wanted to fight. Fight with every ounce of force that was left in her. Alas! Who would she fight? How could she fight with all who were her own? There was no choice. Only one battle: with herself. A constant tug-of-war, which she was losing. Badly.
She no longer had the desire to be heard, loved, accepted, or understood. Or anything else. All she wanted now was to sleep. An empty, dreamless sleep. Because she was tired. Too tired. And still, she wondered why?
© Sam Azura Mirza