We all wish or attempt to escape life sometimes...
We don’t want to be seen, or rather, to see our flaws reflected in others in our interactions with each other. We want to hide what we identify in ourselves as ‘’not good enough’’ or not “perfect”, or imperfect for that matter.
We all have a little child we once were. How was she? Shy? Not seen? Not considered as good enough? Ignored? Not loved? Not supported? Alone in minds of adults? We all have felt alone in one way or another: each and everyone of us. A happy childhood does not exist, only happy moments or memories.
This is basically the main theme of this poem: How, even now as adults, we may still see that little child in us crying, weeping and hiding, because she still feels insecure in all kind of relationships. She wants to run away because she does not know that now she has become an adult who is going to take care of this small part of her yet alive.
It is not an easy ‘job’ to be fully responsible for our little child inside and take complete care of her and give her what she never received as a small kid: love, attention, play, consideration, care, encouragement, and more. Now, as adults, we need to go in those scared corners of this child where she hides and take her from there, securing her that everything is OK now. Only the adult in us can do that, no one else can do it for you. This child needs you. Support her, give her tenderness and treat her equally as you do others parts of yourself. She will be happy and more joyful and playful: qualities she may have never before set free! Only you can do that for her. Don’t let her down.
Why Do You Run From Me?
by Ilda Dashi
Why do i run from my own reflection,
anytime i face mirrors,
that give ‘life’ to my death and resurrection?
Why do i hide behind my anger and fear,
anytime i face myself in others,
anytime a broken mirror shows my mangled leather and flesh from near?
Why do i escape endlessly, losing my real face,
anytime my fears show up heedlessly,
in every encounter with the other they draw their horrible trace?
Why do i drink from the cup of misery,
anytime i see myself in them,
dragging my soul on a place that wouldn’t let it be free?
Why do i punish my little child that wants to grow,
anytime it follows butterflies in a colorless movie,
where the images produce an adult show?
Why do i escape when i see holes inside me,
anytime the other meets me on the red lines of my insanity
when the only option is to sit and see?
What’s inside my wild, soft, childlike pain and agony?
I want to encounter each face that stares at mine with courage,
because every eye and lips composes some of my inner life, my reality.
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