The Story That Wasn't
A soft round face framed by short straight hair flashes a radiant smile at me. Her eyes, crinkled at the corners, shine in the ruddy light. Her chubby cheeks and bright smile seem to illuminate her face. Every time I look at her, she greets me with her uplifting expression. I always turn to her after a difficult day so she can cast her aura of endless euphoria upon me.
The funny thing is, that little girl is me. Was me.
Now, I don’t know who I am, or how I’ve become what I am. I find myself these days constantly asking: When was the last time I felt genuinely happy? But I receive no response, because I ask only myself and I don’t have the answer. Will I ever have the answer?
I sigh and set the photo down. As much as I want to be that happy little girl again, I can’t. So many things have changed for me. People left, people came. I was hurried into a brand-new atmosphere, to which of yet I haven’t acclimated. Everything I once loved and enjoyed now seems like an aspect of the past; the faraway past which I can no longer experience and hold close. Everything is just passing by me and I am blindly accepting it all.
I don’t know what I am suffering from. What does it take to put someone through perpetual melancholy? I think back to all the little things that used to make me smile. The things that used to make me happy. Sitting outside in the warm sunlight, reading my favorite books. Baking cookies on a quiet afternoon. Listening to uplifting music. Rollerblading around the neighborhood while the sun from its low position in the sky would elongate my fading shadow. Was all of that just considered my childhood, or would I still do that now if my life hadn’t changed so drastically?
I look at my photo again. In it, I am alone. Yet my happy smile disregards that fact.
You always smile the most in photos. You smile a lot more than your siblings. My uncle’s words echo in my mind, and I ponder on them. Yes, I’ve always been the smiley one among my three siblings and my smile is the biggest in all our photos. But was my smile only for the photo, or was I genuinely happy?
I tuck the photo back inside my folder. It hasn’t helped me feel any better about myself or my life, but it did make me think. And thinking is something I haven’t been doing for what seems like a very long time.
Until next time! :)
The funny thing is, that little girl is me. Was me.
Now, I don’t know who I am, or how I’ve become what I am. I find myself these days constantly asking: When was the last time I felt genuinely happy? But I receive no response, because I ask only myself and I don’t have the answer. Will I ever have the answer?
I sigh and set the photo down. As much as I want to be that happy little girl again, I can’t. So many things have changed for me. People left, people came. I was hurried into a brand-new atmosphere, to which of yet I haven’t acclimated. Everything I once loved and enjoyed now seems like an aspect of the past; the faraway past which I can no longer experience and hold close. Everything is just passing by me and I am blindly accepting it all.
I don’t know what I am suffering from. What does it take to put someone through perpetual melancholy? I think back to all the little things that used to make me smile. The things that used to make me happy. Sitting outside in the warm sunlight, reading my favorite books. Baking cookies on a quiet afternoon. Listening to uplifting music. Rollerblading around the neighborhood while the sun from its low position in the sky would elongate my fading shadow. Was all of that just considered my childhood, or would I still do that now if my life hadn’t changed so drastically?
I look at my photo again. In it, I am alone. Yet my happy smile disregards that fact.
You always smile the most in photos. You smile a lot more than your siblings. My uncle’s words echo in my mind, and I ponder on them. Yes, I’ve always been the smiley one among my three siblings and my smile is the biggest in all our photos. But was my smile only for the photo, or was I genuinely happy?
I tuck the photo back inside my folder. It hasn’t helped me feel any better about myself or my life, but it did make me think. And thinking is something I haven’t been doing for what seems like a very long time.
Until next time! :)
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