The Girl Without A Face

I find it so interesting how no one really knows me. How I’ve been wearing different masks my whole life. Most of them externally smiling, internally screaming. Sometimes I wonder how shocking it would be if someone from my past sat down and took the time to actually listen to me. Or read what I had to say, what I’ve experienced. Flipped through the pages of my journal to see the pain that was hiding underneath the bubbly, laughing exterior. The one who always seemed down for a good time. The one who seemed full of life. Quietly dying inside.

I don’t think people understand it’s those types of people you have to watch out for the most. The ones who shrug off all their losses and use them for dark jokes to get a good laugh from their crowd of acquaintances. The ones who always seem to be chasing something but it always seems to be changing. What is it that they are dreaming of? I know for me I was riding a train at full speed just hoping I’d find the way to something.

I guess the point is I’m finally finding my way, but no one’s around me. I’m slowly rebuilding. Even my one friend doesn’t really know the extent of what I’m working with, and nor should they. This is a solo journey. I just find that deeply lonely. I guess I wish the world would see humans. Individually. For all that they are, for all that they’ve seen, for all that they’ve been through. Maybe that’s why I love to write so much. No one is interrupting me. I don’t stop talking once I sense that someone has stopped listening. The reader can read, or they can move along. Either way I’ll get to get out my thought. Unfortunately, in the world today that feeling of being heard is rare. The feeling of being understood, seen, loved for who you are. It feels like everyone is just living on the surface while I’m screaming from the depths of my soul.

Or maybe that’s just my perception. I guess I’ll never know.