May 2007
Please understand that at the time that I wrote this, I suffered A LOT. Both my depression and my selective mutism were at their most severe at this time, I was surrounded by my classmates (who always acted their age), my so-called friends were showing their true colors, we were having financial troubles, and I had more issues which I'm not even gonna go into here... so please forgive me for the depressing style of this piece.
She is a tall, taciturn youth with a pale, indifferent face. She raises a long-fingered hand and twists a strand of straight, dark hair. Compliment her, and she will smile briefly. Tease her, and she will not react. Her face is without emotion. Her black1 eyes reveal nothing.
But behind those eyes of onyx is a soul. A soul, with her own feelings, her own memories and opinions, as unique as a fingerprint and as complex as the starry sky. A soul wise beyond her years, fragile beyond her eyes, compassionate beyond her sullen shrugs. She feels your pain.
She has learned idolatry, but has forgotten love. She has learned nepenthe, but has forgotten death. She has learned truth, but has forgotten reality.
She has learned the words, but has forgotten speech.