Memoir of a Bleeding Sensation

 

    There's one rhetorical question that lingers in my head all the time, alongside the many overwhelming thoughts that have taken up every portion of my brain. "How can something so messy, be so good" An unending, repetitive cycle of countless stories — stories that both wreck and build a sweet girl. That sweet girl isn't exactly the stereotypical "perfect, kind, straight A, innocent, pure, every good thing" type of teenage girl. Sometimes, she can be a monster, a horrible killer. And no, not the one who owns a collection of axes and whatnot. Wanna know what's worse than that kind of killer? A kind that kills oneself — killing oneself's soul to the point that emotions are no longer felt. Those kind of killers are complicated, but they can be kind, caring, pained empaths. Just like a pomegranate. In every bite, you let the juice stain your fingertips. Every pop of that juice-filled fruit presents every emotion a sweet girl exists with. It's either she feels those one thousand, three hundred, sixty-seven internal voices all at the same time, or feel nothing at all. But despite the pomegranate being so complex, we can't deny the fact that it's good, no? That pomegranate is just the sweet girl, and that sweet girl is me. 

    "Lonesome is she," some would think. "She's just a misery case," this, "Living her life is like a door to depression," that. That's nonsense. To open a pomegranate to me is art. It's half the fun, lovingly taking it apart bit by bit. My hands get stained in the process, but the sweetness it yields is worth the blood on my palms. To love someone is to know them inside and out. It can be messy and time-consuming, but being splayed bare for someone who took the time to lovingly and gently take you apart is the closest I've been to religion. A pomegranate is about love — about wanting someone despite the mess. I live in a life full of comforting misery that I completely ignore that there are people who care for me despite my complexity. I portray myself as a monster under the bed, ruthless and mean. I always thought I was only gaslighting myself into thinking I am kind and gentle. But the truth is: I am kind and gentle to everyone but myself. 

    A very important person in my life helped me realize that I worry too much about being unkind and harsh to the people around me, but in reality, the only person I'm unkind and harsh to is myself. Isn't that worth living for? To fix myself is to have self-confidence; being kind to myself is being confident within my soul. I am my own villain, but I also am my own hero, therefore the only soul saving me is the sweet girl, messy pomegranate, pained empath, and lonesome spirit living inside me. She can save me — she may be complex and complicated, but that is her gift. Her complex yields help her realize that there's more to life than seasonal depression. Life is truly worthwhile when I finally attain self-confidence. 

    It seemed along the way of thinking that I wouldn't be here, just barely getting by. Time would fly right by me with just a soft, chirping sound. I hope my future's bright in the way I've always dreamed, for my future to be full of light. I hope that I find solace and enjoy majority of my days. I hope I stray away from following — I hope I learn to lead. I wanna travel the world and discover different cultures. I hope that I find myself in Italy, admiring Michelangelo's sculptures. I hope that the sweet, lonesome, messy, complicated, empathetic girl will guide me through every pomegranate that I encounter for as long as I am alive.

References:

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