There's lots of different parts of me, some of which I'd rather not see. But there's quite a few I'm happy to keep because they are truly what makes me, me.
Like the way I laugh at the smallest of things, or the way I throw myself into the unknown without looking back for even a moment. I like the part of me that's caught off guard during photographs, and my expressive hands when they can't wait to get to the good part of the story.
I've come to terms with that rolls out of bed in the morning without a spring in her step, and learnt to love the listless d a y d r e a m e r whose dreams will only ever be just that. All of these 'me's' I've grown to love. But there's one part of me that shouts louder than the rest.
She calls out, "Hm, that was a bad move. Now what are they going to think of you?"
And so it begins again.
That penetrating voice that infiltrates every other part of me. She comments on my introverted nature, my unwillingness to strike up a conversation, my constant moaning about the job I hate and the reluctance I have to change anything about it. She silently rolls her eyes when I fumble my words and sighs in exasperation when I lose my train of thought. She is the conductor and we are merely the circus animals being lovelessly taunted.
And then, there's you. Sitting patiently in the corner. Just watching the familiar show with that soft gaze of yours. You walk over and whisper, "let's go" and just like that, she's behind us; bearly audible over the slow and stead sound of my breath. And as I shift away from the inner criticism, all at once, life feels
very
different.
I remember who the real me is again, and walk freely back into her open arms.
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