The Girl with the Raven Black Hair

Not so long ago there lived a girl with raven black hair. She grew up in a small town where the rays of the mighty sun shined bright and found its way through the thick leaves on to the lush green earth.

She was certainly not the fairest of the fair.

No.

But in the twinkle of her eyes, she possessed the charm to take on even the most craftiest of men. Every look of hers bewitching. Well, no-one could resist her. The power of being true and honest had its perks, indeed.

Beauty wasn’t her game. It never could have been.

It was but her mind that captivated people. Her mind in all of its rawness and glory. Open, fierce and headstrong, she strived for what she believed in. Her every move daunting.

Even so, she believed in giving. What is your life worth, if not for spreading joy.

She danced, she laughed, she cherished her good fortune and so she cried.

People knew her and she knew people. But alas, she never knew herself. And yet she longed for acceptance, not from her kin but from herself.

“What did it take to know yourself?”, she wondered. Fearless to her peers, she worried in secret lest her enemies considered her weak. “You should never doubt yourself”, they said. The truth of the matter being she never did. All she wanted was to be free. Free to know what freedom meant.

She wrote about everything under the sun. “The joy in indulging in little things”, she said.

And every day as she sat to write, the pages were ripped apart. “Perfection is key”, she screamed. If not, why would others read it now or ever? She wrote to be seen, to be heard because at the end of the day nobody mattered. Words written in ink etched into history forever. After all, it was always your word against theirs.

Twirling round and round in her dress, she sought to put an end to her trivial misery. Day and night she struggled to find her answer. She looked everywhere beneath the tables, behind the closet, under the rug. Every person who came before her knew of the truth. Still, they kept mum. For she didn’t know, in every person we meet, through everyone we greet, an image is formed. Sometimes pretty, otherwise not, suiting their thoughts. We end up creating perceptions and if we are lucky lasting impressions.

And so, she weaved her tale into the story of others.

“Social animals, are we not?”

Who is she, you ask?

She is me. She is you.

She is everyone who dares to know,

the mysteries behind one’s own

scars, follies and love.