I look into the mirror and WHOA, Who is this I see? Is that… wait, no way is this what my reflection has come to! No seriously, I know am the queen or is it the princess (am not one for heavy crowns) of “age is nothing but the mood swing you’re experiencing,” but not in a million years could I have expected to see this.
Is it I? She does look like me, yet she’s so real (which cant be said of me). She is way too tiny to hold her own, looks helpless and, yes she is teary eyed!
Is she crying out, does she need my help? Can she even talk? Can I help her, (am so bad at that, ‘cant even help myself at the worst of times)? Does she have a name or I can call by, Phybie perhaps -she does look a lot like me- only that I aint this vulnerable. Yes I am not. Wait, she can talk. She’s been saying something all this while and being the self-absorbed, only-speaks-to-hear-myself-talk kinda person; I never heard a word of what she said.
Good thing she’s still talking, I guess this is the point at which I pay attention and actually listen. “…Whrr?” Okay sweetie, you really have to speak up if am to be of any help. Tears roll, speech is incoherent,
But one thing is certain, this little thing is pleading, pleading with me. She’s asking to be set free. It is official, apparently this body and flesh that is me has been bottling up a soul, which for twenty or so years has been praying me to grant it its freedom, to let it be, to just let it. And am thinking, ”That makes the two of us sister, I need my independence just as well, only that unlike you, lucky you, I have no idea who to take my case to, with whom I should seek audience to get what I seek, what I have sought for the most part of my life.”
But that is just before I snap out of it, again, and try to listen to her. “Why don’t you dress me up in a frilly skirt, a summer dress? Give me some high heels, maybe the trendy peep toes, or those with lacy ribbons… (Shoes have ribbons? I really need to listen to this kid)… paint my nails pink. I love to wear make up, and for long I have begged for a little colour on that plain face of ours,” (hold! Our face? I share a face with this …?
Some one please stop me from hearing -and seeing any more of this) “put some eye shadow and lip-gloss. And for god’s sake, what is so hard with passing a comb through that hair every once in while? (Come to think of it, why do I keep crazy hair? Okay, am actually letting her get to me) Why do you continue to dress me in jeans. There is nothing sexy about every day jeans, jackets and sweaters. And those sandals, urgh! why oh why do you wear sandals? To every little place, even the church? Girl you are making me lose my identity. I am a pretty girl. I love pretty fine things. I am woman asking to be just that. Why don’t you let me, Why don’t you let us!” she begs.
She’s crying, I am crying. I need to snap out of this like for real. I can’t let her convince me to give up on the little that I know I am.“Phybie with make up on, a frilly skirt and wait, pink toe nails!” Funny, really funny!
There you go.
Good thoughts can, and do over power bad visions.