The Little Match Girl

Shadows cast upon this life. In darkness I trudge. Who is there to listen? Who is there to care? There is only so much a friend can do for another. Ironically, I want to be left alone though i yearn for companionship. I wish to be egged on and encouraged. Someone. Somebody. Anybody. Heck, I'll settle for Nobody.

Stirs of cries. Voices plague me constantly. Attracted to Pandora's box,walking away is far from my mind. During these past few weeks, I've been thinking a lot. Emotionally, physically & mentally drained, what is the journey for? Pull up my socks. Get back on my feet. These are mantras I'm used to. But do I want to? My comfort is in the known - knowing and being accustomed to pain.

If my train of thoughts derailed, would I be happier? Would I be beaming if my mind is in a clean slate? I struggle to come to terms with the vote swinging both ways. Having doubts is my constant mental state. Peace is a rare commodity. At least to me.

My smile plasters the pain inside. The purse of my lips conceal this secret jealously. Pain is my sole identity. I do not want to share it. I'm laughing because there's comfort in my pain. It is a familiar tingling sensation, an old friend of mine.

Behind the cheerful facade, lies the little matchgirl. Cold and alone, she wishes to be strong. She takes comfrot in the sole cloak that barely shelters her against the harsh cold. Clinging onto the last boxes of matches, her struggle is futile. Despite her bravado, her body succumbs to the physical atrocities of Mother Nature. She lived alone, clutching onto the last straws of hope that barely kept her afloat. In death, she is alone. An inconspicuous figure to be forgotten as soon as her last breath is drawn. Hypocrites point and express sympathy but as quickly as their tears are shed, her memory is deserted along the lonely pavement she rests upon. The little matchgirl is, afterall, a girl. A child. Children should be seen and not heard, they say. She suffers a fate worse than a child. She is neither seen nor heard. That is her place in the complicated hierarchy of life. In solace, she finds her peace in the simplicity of death.

Everyone thinks I've no worries. I'm not as courageous as they think I am. Neither am I as cheerful as they make me out to be. If they only knew, if they only took time to ask.....but would I tell? If they only knew all my struggles in life. Jaws would drop and admiration would be expressed at my strength. But, is that what I want? A vicious cycle of overtly expressive compliments? Pride bolts that door of communication. I want to break free but I've been imprisoned for too long. I've been imprisoned in my own tower of refuge as opposed to my castle of agony.

Death was the Little Match Girl's chilling anodyne. Sanity beguiles me to know better. What is my anchor in life?