The view in front of her was grotesque, painful, harrowing. It was unfathomable that somebody could be like this, could look like this, could seem like this. That somebody could be so wounded, so cynical, so sordid, so flawed, and one could not even look in the eye.
Bruises, scars, marks. The left overs from her everyday, the meaning of her existence. But yet, she could not look into the person’s eyes. She feared the demons would claim her, she feared that people would see her, yet she dwells for existence. She wanted her own identity, but was exhausted from the fight. Looking deeper in her eyes, she could see the yearning, the loss, the hurt, the love. The pain overwhelmed her so much that she wanted to run away from the view. Despite of not having the courage to look ahead, she did not have the heart to move away.
Her feet were rooted to the spot.
A sentimental fool she was, she wanted to empathize, she want someone to empathize, to understand, to unravel her mystery. She wanted someone to free of the misery, to let loose, to be free. She wanted to fly, to aspire, to dream, to achieve. But she was tired. She was tired to break free from the clutches. She felt, she understood, but she could not look ahead.
She could not look ahead, at the girl. She did not have the heart to look at the girl and try to console her. She lost the battle, with herself, she could not fight for her, she could not stand up for her. She felt for the girl, but could not meet up to her.
She could not look ahead, at the girl.
She could not look at the girl in the mirror.