She has been shy all her life. She has never likes to be seen. She didn’t even like to talk, but when her voice finally found the way through her taciturnity, even though it was low, it burst the space and flavoured the silence that filled the room after she spoke with deep thoughts and a hint of fear.
She however has been fearless.
For as long as I can remember, she has never cared about others’ notions of life. Not because she has been ignorant; she has always known that she has to listen to everyone to have the ability to form her own opinion, no; it had more to do with the fears related to their reality.
Everyone around her seemed to live with questions about the hereafter or the why and with the unapologetic certainty of knowing every truth on earth and the now. She, on the other hand, has never asked why, simply because she knows she couldn’t get answers and this knowledge would frighten her. She has her own reality and because of that, maybe, she is the only one without any anguish. She created her reality by her own ideas and her feelings. She doesn’t have any connection to a body. She has only been a soul. A lonely soul.
She doesn’t have any friends or someone she could confide in, like every young girl her age. Like me. She has been my opposite. She has been an artist without the talent to draw, to sculpt or even to sing, an artist without the talent to express herself. I on the other hand, have a rational brain. I am strong and surrounded by friends and beauty. Her beauty and my definition of beauty have never been the same. Often, when I hear her talking about her beauty, I wish I could see her; I could observe the sparkle in her eyes. I admire her and she isn’t even able to see me, or even to realise my existence.
No, she has no eyes; she has just been a thought, a feeling, a soul, the embodiment of the non-tangible.
And I have only been a body.
The body in which she is enclosed.