I imagine myself as an explorer in almost everything I do. Whether it be, picking a book from an antique library shelf as my knees wobble on an old wooden ladder. Or standing unostentatiously atop a mountain trail looking across a limitless valley.
To me, everything is new, untouched, at least by my vision. No one can see the world as I do, through my perception.
I strive to experience people in the same manner.
Each soul I meet is simply another dust-covered leather-bound book, anticipating its pages feathered through curious fingers. Or a vast valley on the verge of discovery, filled with rocky trails and crevices unknown.
We humans are of complicated nature.
I am one of them.
I want as much as the next person to be understood, read through thoroughly and pondered. I am Ishmael narrating my tale of Moby Dick. My story filled with metaphorical symbolism; my leather-bound pages are intricate and full of wonder, merely hoping to be read. Wishing to be recognized as the person I so desperately aspire to articulate.
I repeatedly fail at giving my whole self, unable to reveal the truth of my nervous disposition. Instead, I find myself overcompensating, and portraying a false sense of self-esteem. The cover of my book much different from its dreamy, self-reflective insides.
I am an open book, with a stubborn leather-bound exterior.
I give my words and speak freely, but I am complicated, unsure, and aware of how I am perceived. Each time I deliver words from my mouth, I over think what I’ve let loose. My casing may seem strong, bound by confidence and filter-less dialect. But insecurities course through my veins, along with the blood that keeps me alive. And perhaps I am perceived as such because I err my soul in such a manner. Consistently, representing my mistaken confidences.
Read between the lines.
Look deeper. I am more than the blue-eyed girl constantly smiling. There are broken pieces inside the lines on my face. Pieces I strive to put back together every day. Parts of me I don’t give, for fear the love I carry in my heart will consume me. I’m not tough, inside I am a gooey mess waiting for someone to see through my façade. Begging for anyone to see the story within my story.
Listen as I speak, hear the quiver in my voice. I am nothing more than a little girl rooting through walls of books, trying to find a magical place to lay my head.
Travel the path untouched.
My heart breaks quickly, easily. I put my soul in everything I do. I am not simply what you see, or what I give. My roots are deep, desperately seeking water to feed the leaves perceived as me. It may seem I shine as the wind rustles my exterior. But, that glisten is powered deeply through the root of approval. Forever hoping someone will cross my unwritten path. Perilously believing they will see the real me, the girl I hide so carefully in the warm virgin soil.
Just as you read through the pages of your favorite novel for a second time and discover something new. Or travel along trails in the valley, I too am diverse, and ever-changing. I am not always what I give, and not because I am not real, but because I am the lines between the words you read. Fear and uncertainty live in my bones; I beg for approval to feed my soul.
I am more than what you see; I am the leather-bound book with a tough exterior hoping for discovery. However, you have to open my book and read more than just the words to see inside me.