Somewhere in the ruins of this blog I once wrote how I read Anne Frank’s last letter often. I felt myself turned inside out by a 15 year old girl. To have your insides bared and autopsied can be frightening.
Anne called a part of her, the part she chose for others to see as a ‘frolicsome little goat.’ Who jokes around and indulges in frivolous merrymaking, who is flippant and spontaneous and can be found shrugging away hurt like a fly from milk.
She also spoke of the other part, a part she keeps hidden away from scathing eyes of the world. I revisit that letter often.
I am so complex a bundle of contradictions, so many a personalities strewn together I don’t even know how or why anybody would understand me. How can I be shallow and deep together. Sometimes, even for days if I’m lucky, I find myself grappling on the surface, trying to keep my head above water, other days I’m already crashed on the ocean bed. It’s almost a home now.
I am a Pandora’s Box. Nothing within me is delightful. Except that my covers glint with remarkable sheen, but the box houses nothing within. I’m the wrong side of a tunnel; you walk from brightness to enter the dark. A few steps and you run towards the brightness again. I don’t blame you. Who wouldn’t.
I’m a cracked porcelain jar. Ceramic smooth like fresh wax, hollow and dusty from within. I also tumble and shatter to smithereens quite easily.
Two extremes, two mammoth, thick chunks of opposites have their roots boring through me, mingling to form a tree that bears no fruit.