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The Loose Thread
I walk the same halls every day. I see the same blue lockers, the same faces, and the same people who are to blame for my fate. As I walk through the never ending halls that bare these familiar faces, I listen to the doors open and shut just like my hope. My self-worth vanishes and becomes locked in, behind those doors, struggling to be released.
Their voices travel from corner to corner, speaking ill of those around them, speaking ill of me. Every word penetrates my chest, leaving me unable to breath. I am suffocating, hands fastened tight around my neck, unwilling to let me go.
Life can be hard. It can be so hard that the task of living can seem as though it is nothing more than a task itself. The feeling of loneliness takes up so much of your mind, that at times, it feels like that empty place inside you is so overwhelmed with anxiety and the yearning of company. Your emptiness is the only visible thing about you. Loneliness is an awful. Loneliness can kill.
I’ve heard of a girl who was so lonely that her heart began to burn. Her heart ached just like mine. She sat alone everyday, holding all of her pain in. Every word, every tear and lastly, every breath was kept to herself. A large figure of loneliness stood over her, creeping in and mocking her every movement. The desire for warmth consumed her, leaving her infatuated with the idea of letting go.
Her scars were a permanent reminder of the times in which she felt as though she was worthless to those around her. A world so large made her feel so small and fragile. Wanting so badly to be found, one day she finally conjured up the courage to free herself. She had found a line of rope that had lifted her off the ground, sending her into the light. She had finally found peace. She was finally free.
She freed herself from all the guilt of not being perfect, she freed herself from expectations, and she freed herself from her loneliness.
What is there to say when you are so close to finally freeing yourself from the torment of not being perfect? What is there to do when you can no longer hold onto the small, fragile string of life that ripples apart every time you grab on, just a little tighter? What is there to do when you can no longer hold on?
I wonder what she’d be like if maybe her tiny, string rope could have stayed together for just another day. Maybe if someone, just one single person held her hand, rather than holding onto that rope..Maybe she’d still be here. Our eyes constantly open, yet we were so blind to the fact that this poor girl, this girl just like you and me, was hurting so much that she felt the need to just let go.
I've been told that the imperfect things we see, are simply the perfections of our being. We judge others based on what society itself believes is acceptable. Our perspectives change and so does our ability to compensate for the true reality of trying to love ourselves even when we are told that we aren’t good enough. We aren’t pretty enough, we aren’t funny enough, we aren’t thin enough. We aren’t enough. Kahlil Gibran once wrote, “Beauty is not in the face; beauty is a light in the heart”. If the idea of perfection and beauty is expelled through our hearts, why do we forget to look there first?
How can you possibly tell someone that they aren’t enough for you? The way someone walks, talks or simply presents themselves is so easily judged. In order to be perfect, we must walk gracefully, stand tall and always confident. We must talk as though we are right and superior to those around. We must present ourselves in a manner that makes us seem equal, yet we must strive to appear better than others. We must mask our feelings and pain to make it seem as though we are perfect.
It’s not easy to be perfect and nor are the feelings that come along with it. I could tell the world, the same world that has learned to disregard people who aren’t good enough, how much hatred yearns to be released in our imperfect bodies. I’d be lying to that world and to my imperfect, but perfect self.
I am just as perfect as the next girl to walk by. Her stature may be perfect, while mine is anything but, but once you take away the clothes and all of the things that cover that perfect person, who do you have? In front of you now stands a creature that has felt every single burning emotion the world has poured onto them. Everything you hate, is admired by someone else who stands seemingly farther and farther in the distance, of what you wish to call hope.
You are drawn to the shy physical appearance, while everything that makes this creature a human, is quickly disregarded and left behind. We stare at a face and if it is not good enough, we leave it behind. We judge ourselves and others if we don’t compare to those who make us feel weak. Why must we only see what we want, rather than what’s truly there? Why must our inhuman selves, judge simplehuman imperfections? Why aren’t we good enough and why aren’t we human enough?
In the end, freeing oneself from all the of wondering and unanswered questions no longer seems like the neglect of loving, yet the neglect of a life. A life so young and strong, became so old and week, unable to pull itself up and retie the dwindling rope known as our hope. Loneliness is an awful thing, loneliness can kill.