Both Sides of the Dime (Written 4/2/14)

If I could tweak some things about me, it would be my temper, pride and moments of hard-headed stubbornness that I, sometimes, let define me. Do we change...really? Maybe we just shut down parts of ourselves that hurt until a good amount of healing takes place. Your mind is efficient at protecting itself, even though, your soul never let's it go. Still, your mind never forgets. I wonder how we can function from day to day, especially after a life shattering moment. Those times that it even hurts to breathe. When no amount of caring words or even the most tender of touches can make it go away. Do we need that to become whom we are meant to be? To ascend to a higher level or will the pain find you there?

I feel as though I have two halves, two thoughts, two souls. One is the dominate - the one that is strong and takes control. The one without fear. The one that will challenge you, out-wit you, manipulate you until things are exactly as she want them. This one gets all she wants with her charisma, her charm, her grace and laughter. She's the pretty one. The one that gets everything handed to her on the, proverbial, "silver platter" we are all waiting for. She's class, sass, the thinker, the poet, the one all are drawn to. She's loved.

The other half - the weaker piece. The one that catches all the blame, the sorrow and the confusion. She is lonely, though, she hides it much too well. She is always seeking peace and I know, unlike her, she will never find it. She's too busy searching for it. You only lose more that way, you tread less ground. She's the one that presses her hands flat against the cool surface of the mirror that she can't see herself in. She's become someone that isn't her anymore. She's always needing an escape, but, none is to be had. I think it's lost to her now. Desperately, she reaches out into the darkness - grabbing for something just out of reach. If she can put her hands on it, she'll own it. She'll deserve it too.

What a pity she stopped reaching.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves
The coward does it with a kiss
The brave man with a sword.
-Oscar Wilde .