Thursday, June 28, 2012

The Girl in the Mirror

Originally, this was going to be posted on Elizabeth's blog, but I decided to keep it :) I promise that I'll still give you a post, Cap'n!

When I look in the mirror, I see a pair of tired gray eyes staring back at me.
I see unremarkable features that are splattered here and there with freckles.
The girl in the mirror has bitten lips from times of either deep thinking or anxiety.
Her hair isn’t soft, it is coarse and brown.

The girl in the mirror doesn’t smile back at me; she only stares, as if asking the silent question, “who are you?”
I don’t say anything because I’m not sure how to answer that question.
The simple answer is Sara.
“I am Sara,” I might say to her. But that answer would not suffice.
There are so many other girls who share my name. So many girls named Sara or Sarah who each have different hopes for their futures.
“I am a dreamer,” I might say to her. But that answer is still too vague.
There are plenty more dreamers in this world. It is not a quality that defines an entire person’s spirit.
If I were to answer her with such a simple observation, she would only continue to stare blankly at me.
But I don’t know how to answer her. I don’t know what words to use, because I don’t know what makes me who I am.
Is it a collection of memories, strung together in a complex pattern?
Is it all of the countless dreams of mine, compounded into one?
Is it the trillions of individual thoughts and conversations that I have had over sixteen years that say, “This is me. This is only Sara.”?
I doubt that I will ever know.

And then, I know what my answer would be.

To the girl in the mirror, with the gray eyes and the bitten lips I would say,
“I am both younger and older than I should be. I never understand the injustices of this world and of this society, but I am almost calloused to them. I am as strong as I am weak.
I am as brave as I am a coward. My voice is both loud and silent.”
“My life is a collection of moments. It is cold grass on my bare feet, and breeze from the river on my face. It is the feeling of being alone in a very dark place. It is lanterns filled with candle light and cool blue water. It is the melancholy that accompanies the reappearance of winter.”
“I am a collage of favorite things. I am a blank paper notebook that waits to be filled with words. I am old, yellow paged books and rusty keys. I am lockets and I am pocket watches. I am dog eared pages and crumpled paper fortunes.”
When I look at the girl, the side of her mouth quirks up to reveal laugh lines from many days and night spent with good company.
She looks as if she’s not convinced, that she wants me to go on, but I do not.

I simply smile back at her, and leave the room.

I do not need to explain who I am to her.

She already knows.

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