Skin by Dalia

Posted on February 11, 2013 by


“Skin” was the only word she brought her trembling hands to write this evening. Writing used to be her only warmth. It was her only retreat for when the waves of nostalgia surged over her; leaving her overwhelmed. It was her escape from reality. Her saviour; restraining her from resigning to the toxins that swamped her interior. It was what kept her sane. Writing was her flight. a departure from the hectic life she painfully lived. Writing, to her, was a refuge. She was an ocean with the depth the human mind alone was unable to comprehend. She was an artist with invincible passion, though her canvas was paper and her colors were pens. She drew breathtaking portraits with vague lines, that molded letters, and even a deaf man could hear her words speak. But without warning, her world flipped. The exquisite thoughts and immense emotions she once held vanished. She now felt not nothing; just mere vacancy. And, in a matter of a split-second, depression swept over her like the darkness the dusk brings along everyday. To her, the dark was a haunting nightmare. A hallucination she couldn’t wake from. All the colors in her vast spectrum turned grey and prosaic. Depression, like a fierce tornado, sucked the animated vitality and strength out of her. Life, to her, no longer had meaning. She was a merge of both misery and joy, on a measureless ally, oblivious to where she’s directed. She was


bipolar and relapsing.


“Skin” repeated in her head.”Skin” she continuously thought while sitting in a solitary small-town coffee shop. “Ma’am?” uttered the voice that bounced her away from the world inside her head.It was the waiter. “Can I get you another dozen cups of coffee?” he teased with a soft smirk.An enthralling personality, she pondered, and extremely appealing charisma, but not even that could draw a smile on her face at a time like this. She almost choked on the words she was about to mumble, but finally got them out with great struggle. “Yes, that’d be great, thanks” she whispered with words cold as ice and a faint, almost non-existent voice. Then, with less emotion that a concrete floor, she looked away, breaking the stare and she, again, was left alone with her thoughts. The thoughts that preyed on her. “Skin” she though as she scanned the atmosphere outside the finely polished window aside her for inspiration. But, instead she inspected the image regarded in-depth. She witnessed a face of a soulless individual she had difficulty accepting. She noticed bloodshot eyes that revealed countless sleepless nights. Then spotted a prisoned tongue, unable to utter a single word or even cry for help. She paid attention to a mind suffering severely due to the possessed it. And shortly after, she scanned a delicate glass heart, shattered after a mishap, surrounded by debris. But, beyond all, she observed death in the horizons of her own vivid reflection. A reflection of a monster she almost didn’t recognize; herself.


Immediately after inspecting every one of her repulsive flaws, she came to realize how much of a mess she has truly become. She saw all her imperfections in a single glance. The imperfections no one could see in a lifetime. Due to the barrier that protects her from being exposed; skin.What is skin but a translucent cover that has the power of leaving our minds ambushed by what we think we see? What is skin but a reversed mirror? A broken shard of glass that instead of reflecting, refracts what on the inside; leaving us with half the truth. Or in other words, a complete lie. What is it but a fraud? A deceiving beard that blinds us to what’s within. A disguise that traps our minds and manipulates our way of seeing others. Our skin is nothing but a lie we’re forced to tell. It’s a hoax. Later on, she managed to carry her broken self home, leaving fragments along the way, after being slapped by the reality of her situation. As for the coffee shop, it was closed and carefully cleaned except for a lonesome piece of paper, she left behind, that said “Skin; a vigorous illusion”

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