She, her and I

An outlook on the different perceptions of ourselves and all the conversations that take place with in our heads.

• Essay

								
 Utter ridiculousness crawled inside and outside of her body in instances, her skin feeling bigger and bigger, consuming her bones, her happiness, what was left of her self-esteem, and overall her mind, occupying her thoughts. She, who I was looking at, seemed different from that of five days ago, or five hours, or even five minutes. Who is she? Why does she look so… miserable? She seems to sink more and more into despondency every time she’s reminded of my presence. Why is she so repulsed at the sight of me? Avoiding my existence does not stop my filling up her mind like a brain fog. 
I saw her through the bathroom mirror; it was I who made her cry. The following day, her dinner was left in the drawer; she must have had her lunch then. Can someone die from too many limes? She was washing her fingers, looked up at me with her red eyes, “Nothing again,” she said and started to quietly sob. Then followed I. Left she along with disappointment and guilt, all bottled up inside. She always wants to know: are we so different, she and I? Oh, how I wish I could disappear, hide away from her cries. What a shame, what a shame, for I have to follow her everywhere, all the time, I imitating her, she imitating I.
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