She...

She is a flower. So delicate that she’s even scared of the dew touching her. She thinks she’ll be torn apart by ravenous human beings. But actually, her own feelings are doing the same to her, leaving shreds of herself in front of her.

Silently she despises herself. For not being one with the crowd. For not doing things like they do. Locking herself in her room, while the others scream and squeal outside, she feels like an outsider to herself. She is lost, burdened by her emotional baggage, ravaged by her own soul. She wants to break free, and fly away to a place where complicacies don’t complicate, where respect holds respect, where politics don’t politicise every damn thing. A sad reality- how straight-forwardness is not liked by the fake people in this world. How she is gifted loneliness by the fake people, who only flock with their own kind. She can’t fake anything. She is truth, she is life, and she is a river flowing along her own course. She is looking for herself in the coal, while she is herself turning into a priceless diamond under the pressure and heat of the forest. The forest of ravenous, insensitive, selfish and political human beings.

She just needs someone to observe her from outside, someone who is not blind to differentiate the diamond from within the coal.

Guess what? She just found that person.