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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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I look up in front of me, and someone catches my eye, someone I hadn’t expected to see. My mind is deeply confused, so I take the most human approach. I begin asking questions because the sensation of my curiosity wilting is one that I adore. I ask the being that stands directly across from me how they seem to be so unknown to me, even though they stand in the residence of what is familiar to me. How can the gure be unfamiliar to me, how can I not recognize someone that resides in my own mind? My question was answered willingly, as if a truth needed to be revealed to me. The gure I saw told me that they were familiar, despite me not remembering them. They told me that the only reason they seemed strange in my mind was because they were a fragment of me I had never wanted to ever see. And the gure stepped closer. It was then that I realized that I was standing upon a mirror of the past. I gripped a lit torch and held it up to the mirror, nally matching a face to the voice. The voice was rough yet it still sounded as if it was hurt. But I was not ready to confront this fragment of me. I was not ready to give it the comfort it needed and craved. It yearned to be understood, though I was nothing but afraid to face that which was true. It craved for my sight, not only to be seen by my eyes, but to be noticed and acknowledged by my mind. It did not want to hide away any longer, for the more forgotten it remained amongst the cobwebs, the more it ached inside. I knew this fragment of me. But I had never wished to see its face. And although I knew this fragment of me, my acknowledgement towards it was never equal to my acceptance towards it. I dropped my burning torch onto the mirror, hoping to burn the memory of that fragment away, but the re only gave it more light, it made it more visible to my eyes. With impulse and severe emotions, I shattered the hot scorching glass with my bare feet. And no matter how much I wanted that piece of me to die away and leave, It never truly did. Roseli Y. Pineda is a young, 14 year-old, American writer of Honduran descent. She lives in the wonders of the world of literature and aspires to become a part of that world as well. Her writing is influenced by her dreams and sudden thoughts, and as unexpected as they are, they sometimes end up leading to fantastical pieces of literature. Despite coming from a small town in Arkansas, she is willing to climb her way up to the top to live her passion to the fullest. Comments are closed.
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Unless otherwise noted, all pictures used are open-source images in the public domain. Archives
March 2024
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