She had deep emotions, for one so young.
She had different views to other people.
Some wondered about her, about the thoughts and feelings her works depicted, about the stories she told of sacrifices made for love, and her drawings depicting sorrow and longing in it’s greatest intensity.
How could she know so much about love and a tortured mind, when she’d only just hit her teenage years? She was too young, surely, to know about such things. Her youth was a barrier between the innocence of her years and the world of cruelty and aching heartbreak. How could her mind be a place where thoughts of these things dwelled? Surely she was blind to such sensitive subjects.
But the mind of a teenage girl is a strange and wondrous place, full of great mysteries that no one could see but the possessor of the mind itself, and this girl had a mind like no other.
Outside of her artistic and literary workings, she seemed, to most, a very normal youth. She laughed with her friends, did her schoolwork efficiently and was polite and well raised.
What most could not see, however, was the curiosity that dwelled behind her eyes. The girl was a great questioner of things she didn’t know or understand, but an even bigger doubter of things she knew. She questioned the ways of the world and the universe, and she needed ways to convey these questions so that everyone could see what it was that she asked, and, perhaps, even give her an answer.
This is when she turned to poetry and art. She saw these mediums as a way to ask the world questions, some that didn’t even need an answer. So she would write about what lay beyond the stars, paint pictures of creatures that dwelled in the night, and drew lines of pencil in an image depicting small creatures hiding in the woods. In each she asked a question, for that was her style, and for each she always seemed to find an answer of some kind. What lies beyond the stars? That was yet to be discovered. What things dwell in the night? That’s all up to your imagination. She asked the questions and seemed satisfied with every answer she got, except for one subject she began to touch on when she first started high school. It was a new subject for her, and for many around her it was also.
What is love? The question she couldn’t find an answer to.
She wrote poetry, she drew pictures and turned to any other medium she could work with, but that great question she asked stayed unanswered. Some tried to answer her, but none of those answers seemed to satisfy her. No one could quench her desire for the truth, so they let her be. They left her on the question that she couldn’t answer.
And even today, she searches for the answer,
I am TheLovesickAngel