There is a place inside of her… a place where all the pain goes. A little box with walls that she reinforces over and over, hoping that if she hides it enough, maybe all the hurt inside will just… disappear. It’s never worked, but it helps her put the hurt away for a while, it helps her cope. And for a little time, she can even forget the box is even there.
But it’s temporary. Only temporary.
And sometimes? Sometimes the box gets too full, and it bursts open; the pain flowing over in streams of water down her cheeks, bitter memories of past hurts mixed in with the fresh wounds…
It doesn’t happen often. She spent her life perfecting her method of dealing with the world. These days it takes a long time for her box to fill up.
But it still happens. It always happens eventually.
The friendly discomfort of solitude masks the reality that she will soon have to face the people that she can’t pretend to, and always must pretend to. Closeness born of time is no substitute for trust, and once again she will go to all lengths to avoid even one uncomfortable minute.
She thinks while alone. When asked, she will say that she was just on the computer, or just painting, or just reading; nothing important, really. It won’t be a lie, but it won’t be the entire truth.
At times she wonders why she is “different” when to her it is everyone else who is strange. Understanding why some people, so many people can act solely on their emotions is beyond her; even her expressions of anger have purpose.
At times she thinks about the pitiful state of humanity. To her they are foolish, ridiculous creatures driven by a need to prove themselves better than anyone else. Their theoretically despicable actions and motives are kept alive by the mass delusion of self-importance; to her they seem blind to every aspect of reality.
At times she contemplates suicide; not out of any overwhelming emotion, but as a path into the unknown. This, she thinks, would be a welcome escape from days of overwhelming boredom and repetition, the perfect manner in which to leave behind the necessity of realizing the falseness of human beliefs. Yet she finds that there is little difference between life and death, and death isn’t worth the effort.
She does not believe in hell, nor does she truly believe in a heaven. She has her own idea of the perfect life after death, yet does not truly believe it will occur. Whatever truths about the universe cannot be discovered in this life will not be understood after death, she thinks, for there is not truly an afterlife.
To her there is no purpose in existence. There is no reason to strive to gain a meaningless position, whether that is a career or fame or adoration or respect. Everything is as it ought to be, and can be no other way; for nothing can be wrong outside of the limited perspective held by humans.
Despite all this, she tries to change herself. She forgets about the unpleasant aspects of things, and they become what she likes. She forces herself to find meaning in everyday occurrences, but merely states what has happened and what it could be under the veneer of immediate belief in the clarity and truth of one’s experiences. She speaks of ugliness and beauty, but only after believing she knows how to discern those things; she is more intrigued by the concept of finding something beautiful, for to her ugliness and beauty are the same. She laughs often, and cries rarely, and feels no emotion in either.
And, like all humans, she fears what she cannot understand. Yet even this fear cannot promote something like hatred; she has never known any form of truthful emotion. Instead, she finds confusion and contempt, but most of all a desire to know that which she never can…