Bear with me here (slightly revamped)

This is the culmination of an overactive mind and note-taking for Criminal Law tomorrow. As you can see, I got a little distracted from chapter 17 and decided to write. So four or so hours later, here’s the result. Its one part truth, two parts fictitious exaggeration and three parts tired fluiness. But its either this or let it disappear into the bowels of my computer. So read on.

It has no plot, no title and the repetitive style probably means you’ll get half way and tune out. But I think that’s all part of it.

Who the bloody hell is she?
This is not an easy question to answer. Who am I? Really? For a while I’ve been mulling this over; letting it role around the inside of my head, onto paper alongside hot chocolates and morning sun. Is that person I talk to in the mornings, throughout the day and late into the night – that voice in my head – me? Am I that person who puts my car into neutral and lets my little brother push it out of the driveway just to see if we can? Am I that person who taught herself to grin lopsidedly in early high school? Who loves to laugh and fool around? Whose sense of humour is strange and quick and slightly twisted. Or am I that girl who stands so close to the mirror every morning and searches her own face while putting on foundation and concealer? And when I finish, is that me or just my daily mask staring back? That person who laughs and jokes and grins just to give the impression that she’s happy – to prove that she is fine. That person who even when she is not fine, even when she cried herself to sleep, will still laugh and grin and joke and fool, because that is who she wants to be. Because she collects the joker from the pack of cards.

Am I the girl who feels the eyes of the world so sharply on her every movement, even the eyes that aren’t turned her way? What must they think of me? And why do I care? The person who tells herself she is being stupid – they don’t care. They don’t care. So why do you?
Who dissects and analyses

Every.

Little.

Thing.

Until she is sure she’s done something so wildly embarrassing and what must people think of her? People don’t think of her. And is that worse?

Why didn’t you say that then? Where did your words go?

Who finds talking to strangers so exhausting, who finds talking to people so exhausting.

But who loves the people anyway.

The naive one, the innocent one. Takes so long to make friends, to open to people but once there would walk through fire for them. Who wouldn’t doubt their word. Who finds it so hard to let them out of her heart, because they proved themselves just by making it in. Who never loves by halves, never hurts by halves. Who exists to make others feel comfortable and wanted and happy. And smile at them, because somebody who smiles is an ally. We love dogs because they are so happy to see us – so why shouldn’t that work on people too?

Whose mind won’t stay still, is always writing stories, imagining scenes, wishing, hoping, fooling itself. Whose expectations are set too high, so that when things don’t meet them (and they don’t) she feels let down by the world around her. Or is she letting the world down herself?

What about that person who reads the horoscopes and hopes they’ll tell her what she wants to hear. Who so dearly wants to believe in a higher power; be it fate, be it Karma, be it God. But when all is said and done… there is still so much doubt.

The girl who feels so much but cannot show it. The girl whose heart stays firmly up her sleeve with those five aces because if nobody knows how she feels, its easier to pretend you aren’t hurt. Because isn’t being hurt a sign of weakness? And isn’t it better to show a lopsided grin or lighthearted grimace than to bother people with trivial things you can’t express in words alone.

Am I the person who likes to test the water first. Whose opinions change to align with others, unless she feels strongly enough about these things. Who always waits for invitation. Who believes in polite conversation and never putting people out. Who listens to opera, Sinatra, Metallica, Dire Straights, Something for Kate, Linkin Park but never never rap. Except to dance to. Who loves to throw herself around the dance floor, even though she can feel uncoordination flowing through her every movement. Who stands back in front of that mirror and watches herself move to Black Eyed Peas or Old Blue Eyes. And loves the way it feels to move, wishing she could dance properly, but letting the music move her mind so she thinks she can. Who judges a song by its lyrics and wraps stories around the words as they flow. Who sings with her eyes closed when nobody is around.

And will talk to animals.

Am I the mumbler?

The joker?

The writer?

The analyser?

The romantic?

Is this even me? Or is this my insecurities, my affinity for melodrama talking?