The Answer

Here’s the answer to the question. No bones were broken, but bones aren’t the only things that break.

When she thought it was time to set out in the world and figure out some things on her own, she got hit in the head. Hit so hard that she fell not on the ground but beneath it. She had not seen it coming and the impact of the blow had a resounding effect on her and broke all the bones she was yet to learn… a constant buzzing in her brain, an unanswered question that she innocently thought and believed she’d find the answer to eventually. She crawled all the way, having no energy to duck as the wrecking ball shot at her over and over again, hoping against hope that it would slow down until it eventually came to a stop. She had no courage to stare the enemy in the eyes they way they did to her, and more often than always she argued with herself about the many things that she simply denied when others asked her. Her brain could no longer digest imagination from reality and sometimes she got them both confused. At a time when she had lost every bit of hope she had, she was injected with hope… from people who considered her the normal one. The dose kept her alive, but they weren’t enough to cure her. Friends, they called themselves. And a family that accepted her. Just the way sticks and stones broke her bones, their words and jokes pulled her through… one day at a time. And as she thought she was beginning to heal, she began to walk. Started to glue back together the bones so that she could help herself stand up again. Crooked and hunched, but enough to walk straight. They were happy, but some took it personally; they thought she had not had enough of the blow so they put her up to test if she’d survive a tougher one. Harsher words. Sharper weapons. And she took them all. This time though, she decided to make herself seem stronger… she smiled to be polite, and when she realised that some of her actions weren’t convincing enough for the closest people around her, she made her efforts more genuine. She laughed a little louder than she wanted to and put up an image that she thought was perfect for them to see. She did this for so long that it became part of her… that was the only way she could stop them from saying what they thought she wanted to hear. The moment she took a break and went back to who she actually was, people thought she wasn’t alright. In fact, she wasn’t but she started accepting her life that went back and forth between the image she put up for others and the one she saved for herself alone. And she was desperate for an escape. Her biggest secret was her life itself.. the one she tried to hide from herself and she kept her secrets safe by putting them into words, revealing only as much as she wanted to. Saving the person who had hurt her so bad, painting beautiful memories in words that she was tired of trying to explain to others. No one ever judged her writing, they didn’t interfere her with their opinions and thoughts. They didn’t try to make her feel better, and when she wrote, she didn’t have to pretend like she was happy. She didn’t have to pretend like she didn’t care… because no one ever saw what she wrote. This was between her heart and pen, and it was true love. Often, they asked if they could read but she refused point blank for she knew what she’d hear. She knew they wanted the best for her, but she didn’t herself, because in the eyes of the old and wise this was only just a small adventure in life. But to her, it was more. It was the only thing that had hurt her so bad, it was the only thing that made her cry so hard and had made her forget who she actually was. To a world that laughed at how simple her deepest worry was, she saw no point in explaining… so she quit. Instead, her words started to grow more meaning and with every piece it grew deeper. Eventually she started sharing her work… revealing only as much as she wanted to and disguising all that she had to to save the people and person she cared so much about, keeping her secret still. The one they said she had to forget about. And when they read what she wrote, they were always so confused. “That’s so deep,” they said. “So deep that even Adele couldn’t roll in it,” they asked. “Left with a thousand questions, but I won’t ask any” they said. And so she said nothing. The secret to her ‘style’ of writing remained so… a ‘style’ and nothing more. No one had to know that it was her escape. An addiction because that was the only way out. The Only way out.
The question she waited for finally came one day, in the early hours of the morning. “I want to know why you always write such deep stuff,” this person asked at 01:00am that day.
She had always planned the answer for that question but at that moment she simply covered the sigh with a smile and said, “I don’t know.. I just like to write sad stuff.”
Nothing further was asked. Maybe because more meaning was understood, maybe because the answer was believed.
And then she thought she finally had to answer the question, and properly.

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