People take one look at her and have her figured out, or so they think. She always seems to be happy, usually the positive optimist. She's pretty quiet, an introvert, rather boring. Most people don't really have one opinion or another about her. It seems as though no one would notice if she simply disappeared. People labeled her after one look, then simply forget her.

She knows how people see her and wishes she could be different, could be loud and outgoing, but she can't. Something always holds her back. So, she plays her part, puts on a happy face and continues acting, day after day, month after month, year after year, but she knows that what everyone sees is really just a wall, a defense, to keep the rest of the world at bay.

I guess it could be said that she doesn't know herself, not truly. She knows that she's unhappy, desperately so, but she doesn't know exactly why. She knows that she can't sleep at night, just lying there, quietly reflecting. She knows that she cries a lot, always by herself, but she's never really sure why. She sees herself with the clarity of third person, and she just accepts it.

There are so many feelings inside of her, many vague ones and many strong ones. She's an optimist till the end and always builds everything up, but nothing ever seems to be as good as she hopes. One would think that she would have learned by now, but she hasn't and probably never will. She is scared to death that nothing and no one will ever measure up to her impossibly ridiculous standards and she'll move through life alone, bitter, and angry. The probability of these thoughts torment and terrify her, but she can't stop them.

Nothing really holds her interest, or ever has, and this worries her, too. She sees everyone around her with specific goals and dreams, full of energy to fulfill them. They seem to be moving full-speed ahead on the road of life, whereas she just moves along in the ditch. She's expected to go to college, and she will, of course, that's what she's supposed to do. But she doesn't really want to, she doesn't know what she wants to do. What she does know is that she's tired of the petty competition, tired of the cruelty surrounding her, and tired of everything being so fake.

In many ways, she's like a small child, with so many fears, forever afraid of the monsters in the closet. But she's also like an old woman: she's seen too much, been through too much, and she's tired. She loves the simplicity of solitude and adores the beautiful melody of the flute. The child in her wants to dance to it, but the old woman in her keeps the child silent, forever composed.

And so I continue, day after day, step after step, silently battling my fears and worries, always composed, always within my walls. c