I am stuck in here, inside my body. My feet move in patterns I never taught them, my mouth says things I do not approve of. My eyes lie to their comarades, my body betrays my mind. I am trapped inside it all, watching as if from behind a glass wall, seeing myself change into someone I do not want to be. You sit in front of me, laughing at my words, words that are not mine, but pale regurgitations of ideas and phrases picked up from a variety of sources and sewn together in my ripped and tattered quilt of speech. These words are not as clever as they all see them to be. Instead, I have just learned them from others, from those I consider smarter and wittier than I could ever dream of being. My, what a hypocrite I am, even about hypocrisy. If only I could really be as talented, creative, as admired as the people I admire. I speak of being unique and scornful, but all I ever wanted was to fit in, wasn't it?
I am stuck here, not out there as you surely are, but in here, behind wall after wall, there is a part of me who cannot reach the door, who cannot walk out of the cage and state herself. The one who has marched to the front to publicise all my secrets and fears, she is not me. The mind that forms my thoughts, pronounces my words, states my ideas is not my mind. It is the mind that I watch while curled up, silent and still, in a recessing cobweb-filled corner of that other mind, protected by the one-way glass that allows me to see every mistake, but for no-one to see me.
The man in front of me adores the qualities he sees in my mind. He loves the unique, condescending thoughts I portray to everyone, the critical, judgemental, hateful way my eyes see the world around me. He loves the colours I see, though, and he can see through all the bricks in front of my glass wall. He envies those colours, and through his appreciation he sees past my negativity to what is behind that wall.
"No!" I tell him as he tries to coax me out of the puddle my mind has become. He offers me something new, and understanding, something that noone else has been able to offer me. He says he loves me. He says he adores me. He accepts all the things I do, and he says he understands. He gives and he gives and he gives to me all of which he is capable of giving; he gives me all of himself, and thinks that he recieves all of me in return. I don't know if he does, though. What if there is a part of me, stuck behind a wall of ash behind the walls of brick and glass, that he cannot reach?