She is afraid, and she thinks she knows why.

She wishes she could be brave, a lion’s heart in her if there ever was such a thing, but she can’t.

She tries, yes, she does. She pushes the swing several times, the little girl that she is, and when the little boy sitting on it smiles, she smiles too. When he doesn’t smile, she doesn’t. And that is when she starts to be afraid. Again.

But then he falls, and her heart quickens with a jolt. She runs to him, sometimes fearing, but her little legs continue with a mind of their own, until she reaches him, and is able to make him better. When the little boy is able to pick himself up again, and things are back to normal, a normalcy in daily routines resumes.

A routine with a somewhat murky beginning, never really a start.

Never really a period where the rainbow grandly glitters through the lisp of the crystal-stained clouds.

Never really a period where the birds twitter and chirp and trill in their high little voices.

Never really a period where roses and jasmines and buttercups bloom, swaying their pretty little heads as the gentle zephyr caresses them, and the warmth of the sun tickles their lightly-bent necks, slowly following the lazy curves in their body.

There never really was such a period. Maybe one or two or three or a couple of flowers suddenly bloomed. That made the little girl’s eyes sparkle and her heart aglow, the palpitation stronger, quicker, stronger, quicker. And just as quickly as the flowers bloomed, they faded away, and life went back to normal.

A normalcy in routines. A life that was simple. Is simple. And what’s there not to like about such a life? That gives comfort in stability? That gives warmth in companionship? And yet when you’re a little girl, and life has just begun, can you live life with such frightening stability and normalcy? When the jelly mould of your life has followed a certain mould but yet to set?

And yet, what she wants others to see, as her heart yearns for a little more magic to stabilize her feelings in the big chess game called life, they’re unable to. And her heart,

dulls a little

aches a little

and yet,

noone hears her screams

noone sees her tears

noone knows her fears.

For they are silent, they are invisible, they are innate.

She spoke before, of all the beauties in the sights that her pretty twinkling eyes could hold. But as her voice was heard only, and carried away by, the same gentle zephyr that caressed the flowers from those days, her voice, her beautiful voice, slowly faded, and she found that she knew not how to speak.

Even as she opens her mouth and her lips part, not a rasp of whisper escapes. And who can she blame? For not many can hear nor see the intangible…isn’t it?

By projectjasmine

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