How do you hold a conversation with your bruised, tattered self?
A self that represents your inner-child wounds, with your unfulfilled fantasies all over her face, hands dirtied with the soil of life, hairs turned brittle and grey in the blazing sun.
A self that’s bare and naked, with nothing to hide, nothing to cover.
How do you sit in front of her, with ironed clothes, gold earrings, manicured nails, red lipstick?
Are you able to muster the audacity of taking out your shades and looking into her eyes?
“Hi, nice to meet you.” ?
Pretension doesn’t work in matters of the soul.
Do you dare to offer her tea or coffee?
Herbal, chamomile, matcha (nonsense)?.
Her poise is baffling. I see all the years of disappointments she wears on her skin proudly.
Her eyes are as dark as my morning coffee, with things to reveal the more I stare into them.
There are no fake adornments.
Despite any material beautification, she sparkles in elegance.
Even when she speaks, she speaks only the truth.
“How are you?” comes out of my mouth as a reflex, lacking any real concern.
Instead of saying ‘I’m fine’ as I thought she would, she shoots ‘I am not okay’.
I curl up in astonishment and humiliation, with no words of consolement to offer.
We have an awkward, long chat, and she doesn’t deviate from her predicament.
Once or twice, I tried humouring things up a little with my impromptu jokes.
Only to be patronised by her unchanged expressions.
I small-talked her into believing that despite all the sadness, we can find joy,
I show her the blue sky outside with its hopeful vastness,
I brought her pretty flowers, but she refused to even look at them.
The more I convince her of hope and miracles, positivity and gratitude, the more she seems unconvinced.
I tried showing her a fascinating little purchase I made as I was coming to meet her, but she looked frustratingly uninterested.
She only looks relieved when we discuss where it hurts,
She only finds some solace in the act of digging out the buried, with the spade of curiosity.
The only time her eyes widen with hope is when I hold out her hands to have a look at her scars.
Or when I caress her bruises, examining them patiently.
When we were done with the meeting, I stood up and hugged her.
I embraced her wholeheartedly.
A little exchange of warmth, and her dark, mysterious eyes welled up.
I promised to take out some time from my busy schedule and meet her soon.
She seemed cheered just by the thought of it.