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The girl in the mirror

You, in the mirror. This girl i see still lurking behind those eyes. This naughty impish girl with adventure that refuses to die. I smile at her, make faces. And, she makes them back at me. This girl who would climb trees, play act in front of the mirror, who would walk around dancing inside the house and answer in gestures, for whom words weave a spell taking her to magical lands where she feels at home, a girl who used to run, and jump, make up new games and tell her stories to those who would pause to listen. This awkward, thin, lonely, mad girl in a house full of hushed secrets and adult happenings, hidden safe in the cherry tree, beneath its heavy green, deaf to the searching, frantic calls of the outside world, This girl with her straight, long hair that felt like silk with a few drops of halo shampoo borrowed from the house opposite. This girl with raspy voice, with hesitant words tumbling out in a hurry, eager to be heard in a house full of voices. You girl, who had a question for every answer, a perspective for every question, hungry for life...you child with the muddy hands and legs, and hair that falls across your chubby cheeks... forever curious.

You, young woman, this girl-woman i see with determination in her eyes, eager to take on the world, with dreams within her, sure she can conquer the world, with nothing but the gift of the gab and her stubborn mind. This awkward, confident girl-woman, who wants to power her own life and thinks she can do it with truth and on her own terms. She sees no obstacles, knows no fear beneath her thudding, hesitant inexperienced heart that feels like it will burst. You young woman-girl, who feel you can learn anything. You, this vision in the mirror who lives, dreams, breathes ideas, your enthusiasm scaring her, wearing her out, and yet she must press on, misunderstood, a misfit discarding her safety gloves at every point. Drunk on life, drunk on possibilities... drunk on how many colours in her mind she can see. The pictures, oh the pictures, the pictures and ideas she can but not fail to see...This young girl-woman with too much of magic and not enough place to put it. this young woman who must bear the weight of ambition, the price of frankness, who must speak everything except what she cannot... A rebel with many causes, with compassion in her heart that does not know where to stop giving or forgiving...this girl-woman who must be broken many, many times and yet get up to keep moving... picking her broken pieces and weaving them into painful, stories so they weave themselves back into poetry... the pieces bleeding her hands as they cut brutally into her tender skin. this girl-woman who must raise a child, run a home, take care of others, hug her huge hunger for love, her passion for life and its splendor, this lonely girl woman who must rise like the phoenix many times over, this girl woman who must brush with death again and again only to be reborn to hope and love... and like the eternally hopeful, find the well within to regrow ... into innocence. This young woman, who does not know stop... and learns to. This young woman who will go too far for love and forever for what she gives her word to.

You, woman. With your tired, sunken eyes, weary of endings and beginnings, timeless woman who must go on until the game is over... you, cynical woman who had aged overnight, who does not light up with ideas as before... you old woman, who must now get up wearily to the summons and roles of a world that has licked her into some misshapen shape, unbroken in spirit yet weary to go on... this woman stripped of her magic, who now thinks before she speaks, guards herself closely, whose eyes do not reveal their secrets, whose mind you will never know. whose thoughts you will never hear... this woman with no trace of her many other selves, merging herself with what the world wants to hear, blending colorlessly. This woman whose story is nothing special anymore. Woman. With a hidden fire that you will not see easily anymore. With walls that you will not be allowed to climb. Woman. This woman with no answering spark from the mirror. Just another woman in the mirror. Just a steely woman, who will go on briskly with the business of life, shrugging magic off. Woman? It is a long time since you have been one. felt one. acted as one. A woman, whose spell is broken and who will look into mirrors no more.

Some day ... Again? The mirror waits. 

- SS (2/1/2019 - A birthday note)

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Welcome, reader!

Posted on Jan. 30, 2019, 9:46 a.m.


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