I remember that it hurt, looking at her hurt. I could see through her; I could sense the agony, feel the heart. If I merely looked at them, those big mystical black eyes would portray a sea of abundant happiness. Looking at those eyes would feel just fine, all I was afraid of was to linguistically see in and around. It precipitously happened to sadden me every time my sight rotated and witnessed the presence of isolation, darkness and insecurity that dwelt along around the sea of bliss. Dark circles looked stamped.
This girl, I have been seeing her since I was 12. Her teenage years made me so desperately want to grow up. She was an inspiration to me; she was the god-damn person I wanted precisely to be like when I hit my teenage years. I was pretty sensible and a little over mature for my age then. I could clearly evaluate how much she had to go through everyday, but then again isn’t that exactly what life brings to every single one of us?
Life isn’t obviously supposed to be a bed of roses, but be it or not, there’s no harm in thinking it as one. Thorns of rose stems can prick every once in a while but tranquillity lies in getting lost in the fragrance of its petals. No matter how hard life gets, smartness is to barely give it a straw of zero point five cents. And wow, this was a lesson to a twelve year old kid. Gracias, girl-next-door.
Just like her eyes, her entire self was a mystery. She wasn’t introvert at all as a teenager. She knew how to socialize, she knew how to deal with the world and everything in it; she could make jars of juice out of the lemons life threw at her. Yet again, I could feel a tall height of vexation piling up within her. It shows naturally if a person is exhausted or frustrated or devastated, but her, she effortlessly managed to have her smile stuck to lips even when her heart would shed tears of blood. She was just 18 and I know that it definitely isn’t an age to be so lost with life and get all melodramatic, but then again this is the very age that decides the rest of the future, isn’t it?
If my repeated use of nouns and adjectives of the word ‘mysterious’ sounds like an exaggeration, then tell me what’s it called when a person knows exactly what she has to do but instead goes and does the opposite? Can I be given a fair analysis of her instincts that tell her she wants to be a journalist but happens to build herself up to be a fine, successful corporate lady? Explain to me what is it with her taking innumerable selfies a day when deep down inside she suffers from a huge case of inferiority complex. Give me a clue to why she seems to be perfectly ecstatic being independent when inside her isolation is the only thing that fills the void in her heart. Pacify me with an answer to what on this earth makes her cry watching every single movie though she seems to be a certified heart-less being in practical life? Petty issues apart, why for heaven’s sake does she seem to be an odd in the society despite her millions of efforts to fit into it?
Being a 12 year old, it was hard to judge if its wrong to want to be like her when I get to her age, but it felt right. Possessing my own weaknesses within and not letting the world know is definitely saving me from getting exploited. The streak of flaunting my strength even if I lack it is a life saver. This girl, she didn’t encourage me to be a sweet pretence but a bold warrior. She taught me to believe in what I can and even in what I can not.
Yes, this interesting girl next door exists till now in my life. Now that I turned 18, I am going through everything this girl next door had to when she was 18. My eyes are exactly like hers. I have really hollow patches of dark circles, just like her. I’m having the exact ‘mysterious-or-confused-or-whatever you call it’ instinct. It’s a priceless satisfaction to almost be like the girl next door my 12-years-old-version adored. That girl next door? She’s 24 now and she’s an independent journalist already, having her views heard all over the world, getting her initiatives right to promote justice and alongside she’s a little much of a writer who’s expecting to have her book published in a month. And yet again, she’s exactly what I want to be.
This girl next door whom I am having around me everyday since I was 12, whom I’ve been looking up to be like is the picture of myself like I want to be in next 6 years. I name her the girl next door because I see her everyday, I want to be like her everyday, she always lives around me and paramount of all – I can never be her, all I can try is to be like her. The ‘her’ isn’t just another her, she’s the picture to me of my desired future version of myself. Not another body figure that dwells in the practical world, she’s my delusional picture of myself in the next 6 years, and that’s all I want to be like. To be like my imaginary self, like my most desired grown up version, like my very own girl next door.
By blood a queen, in heart a clown.