It's funny really, behind all of the pomp and circumstance, masks and layers, how we're really all the same. Or are we? We are all products of our experiences, shaped by what has happened to us, by us, in us. Take me for example, despite appearances I'm just a scared little girl, hiding in the corner. Waiting. Hoping for someone to extend a hand, a warm smile, and tell me that it is all okay.
This little girl, cold and seemingly alone, trembles at the idea of being found out. What was it my father said? A coward, phony. This little girl is self-conscious. She doesn't think any one really likes her, nor does she deserve to be. She is shy, quiet, reflective. Intense. She questions everything, On occasion she finds someone that can draw her out, for a little while. But more often than not, that person leaves and she retreats even further into the shadows of the walls she creates.
This little girl is searching for her place in this world. A place where she can be herself, she can be comfortable. Where she feels that no one judges her for the way she walks, looks, or feels. This little girl does not like to feel vulnerable. Her insecurities pile on as she tries to look away.
She's growing now though, this girl in the corner. Trying to sit up a little higher and allow herself to be seen. Slowly she is starting to take risks, has even made eye contact once or twice, but only briefly. But we all have to start somewhere, patience. As she stretches out her hand.
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