Fridays are longer.
I was on the bus on my way to work; tired and a little sleepless but, if not happy, at least content.
I thought of friends and family, and books and life; I listened to the song playing, wondered realities and asked what-ifs. I wondered, but regretted not. What for? I was content.
The bus passed by the park - and I saw the benches and the grass and the bridge. I also saw the stairs I once sat on.
I thought of the girl that sat on the stairs of my past. She was but 20, and she cried over love's labour's lost.
She worried about many a thing, that girl. About college, and books, and having friends and being thought pretty. She worried about being liked, even though she was unaware of it. She read Jane Austen and worried about ending up not as Lizzy Bennet, but as Austen herself.
That girl, she only dressed in light, bright colors, and never wore black nor green. One made her look like an old movie, and the other like a lettuce. I'm too pale, she would say. No: light blue, and pink and lilac. Because she worried about looking like a flower.
She had quite the long hair, the girl in pink (sitting on the stairs), for she also worried about looking feminine, and was afraid of not being pretty. She dressed in pink and had a lilac flower in her raven-black hair. And she cried over a summer dress.
It was a light orange dress with white flowers. His jaw had dropped when he'd seen her wearing it, and it had taken him slightly longer than usual to say hello. She had smiled: she was pretty in his eyes.
But it didn't matter, he still preferred other flowers.
Going through the park that particular morning, she thought of the summer dress, which apparently hadn't made her look pretty enough, and she sat on the stairs. She cried and thought she'd never looked good in orange anyway. She wondered why she had to be pretty like other girls, when clearly she was not.
She hadn't been told, back then, that she had serious, silent beautiful eyes; she didn't know that she could look good in orange, and that colors do not define a flower. She hated mirrors.
The thing with the girl was that she thought she was already complete, that she was all grown-up. That the only thing she had to worry about now was her shell. And so she wore pink and a lilac flower. And everything was easier for her then, only, she didn't know that.
The park eventually disappeared, as the bus left it behind. And I wondered about that girl. Whatever had happened to her. Perhaps now she prefers dark colors - specially black, grey, purple and dark green; she may have realized by now that looks matter only to a certain extent, that there are many other important things to see to. That there's still a lot of room for growth. I have a pretty good hunch that now she's got short hair, and that she loves mirrors - cause she knows she's pretty, and even charming sometimes, and that it doesn't make the slightest difference.
She might even wear that summer dress again, someday.
I sighed. What a particularly long Friday.
I was on the bus on my way to work; tired and a little sleepless but, if not happy, at least content.
I thought of friends and family, and books and life; I listened to the song playing, wondered realities and asked what-ifs. I wondered, but regretted not. What for? I was content.
The bus passed by the park - and I saw the benches and the grass and the bridge. I also saw the stairs I once sat on.
I thought of the girl that sat on the stairs of my past. She was but 20, and she cried over love's labour's lost.
She worried about many a thing, that girl. About college, and books, and having friends and being thought pretty. She worried about being liked, even though she was unaware of it. She read Jane Austen and worried about ending up not as Lizzy Bennet, but as Austen herself.
That girl, she only dressed in light, bright colors, and never wore black nor green. One made her look like an old movie, and the other like a lettuce. I'm too pale, she would say. No: light blue, and pink and lilac. Because she worried about looking like a flower.
She had quite the long hair, the girl in pink (sitting on the stairs), for she also worried about looking feminine, and was afraid of not being pretty. She dressed in pink and had a lilac flower in her raven-black hair. And she cried over a summer dress.
It was a light orange dress with white flowers. His jaw had dropped when he'd seen her wearing it, and it had taken him slightly longer than usual to say hello. She had smiled: she was pretty in his eyes.
But it didn't matter, he still preferred other flowers.
Going through the park that particular morning, she thought of the summer dress, which apparently hadn't made her look pretty enough, and she sat on the stairs. She cried and thought she'd never looked good in orange anyway. She wondered why she had to be pretty like other girls, when clearly she was not.
She hadn't been told, back then, that she had serious, silent beautiful eyes; she didn't know that she could look good in orange, and that colors do not define a flower. She hated mirrors.
The thing with the girl was that she thought she was already complete, that she was all grown-up. That the only thing she had to worry about now was her shell. And so she wore pink and a lilac flower. And everything was easier for her then, only, she didn't know that.
The park eventually disappeared, as the bus left it behind. And I wondered about that girl. Whatever had happened to her. Perhaps now she prefers dark colors - specially black, grey, purple and dark green; she may have realized by now that looks matter only to a certain extent, that there are many other important things to see to. That there's still a lot of room for growth. I have a pretty good hunch that now she's got short hair, and that she loves mirrors - cause she knows she's pretty, and even charming sometimes, and that it doesn't make the slightest difference.
She might even wear that summer dress again, someday.I sighed. What a particularly long Friday.
