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The Reader

As far as she could tell her life was always divided into two parts. Part A: The one where her father was in her life and Part B: The one where he was not. It had become so normal for her to view her life this way that it felt like there was an actual tangible partition in her brain that divided these two times.

She missed him desperately sometimes and sometimes it was like he never existed at all. But all times, those feelings gave her a weird mixture of pain and pleasure. Pain because, on the one hand, she missed him but she would never see him again and pleasure because, on the other, she had experienced him. He was a tangible part of her existence. He had played a part in moulding her. She is because he was.

She always fantasized about what it would be like if he was still around. Would they have been close? Would they have had a lot to talk about? Would they have shared a strange love of books? Would he be proud? Disappointed? Would their lives be radically different? She tried to convince herself that it was better this way. Wasn’t it? She always felt a bit distant from her mother. A fact she denied even with the glaring evidence of its truth. She didn’t doubt her mother’s love. They were just on different wavelengths most of the time.

She was never the type to raise her voice in dissent. Her silence was her weapon. The tool she used to send her message. She had the most unique form of rebellion.



I used to hate myself. I think maybe I still do. At least most of the time. For being ‘different’. The weird one or the odd one out. I stick out like a sore thumb for all the wrong if not unfortunate reasons. My labels thus far have been, ‘too quiet’, ‘strange’, ‘weird’, and other wordless body language related expressions.

For a world that’s constantly telling us to ‘be ourselves’ I just can’t seem to find the version of ‘myself’ that’s best suited for it. I tried speaking out more but then I was told to stop trying too hard. So I stayed quiet but then I was told to be more ‘out there’. I’ve told myself, maybe they just don’t get me. I should give it time or maybe I can change this one thing about myself and it’ll be better. Well it’s not getting better. And as I grow older this whole ‘editing-who-I-am’ thing is just wearing me out. I don’t know who ‘myself’ is. Sometimes I wish people had brains that pre explained a person. So we’d all just stop acting like we’re trying to prove something. For goodness sake, its exhausting! I’m exhausted.

I want to not care what people think about me but I need ┬áthese same people to actually have a life. And it’s hard to go and get life with all this background noise. Wasting time trying to achieve an unclear state of ‘normal’.

So first impressions are important but also be unique because there’s no one else like you. There’s no one else like me. I find that statement funny. . .