A girl in pink, no more than eight or nine, with mischievous eyes and a bewitching smile, steps quietly into my lawn. She moves swiftly, as if on a secret mission, searching for her shuttlecock, a tiny spark of joy in the mundane. She doesn’t know it, but she reads me—her innocent gaze glimpsing deeper than most.
At the fulcrum of her childhood, she knows no pain, no sorrow. She is an angel, carefree, unburdened by the world’s judgments. In contrast, I feel like a shuttlecock myself, tossed in the air by the relentless winds of life. My existence, a formulaic cycle of loneliness, swings like a pendulum between fate and despair. I am trapped in my own sanctum, where comfort eludes me.
This birthmark on my face—my mark of isolation—makes me an outsider, a gorgon in the eyes of the world. The gospels of society echo through my mind: “An ugly person should never have a friend.” I am left in silence, my own appearance a permanent reminder of my solitude. No companion to share in laughter or song, I remain isolated, hidden in the shadows of my own sadness.
The girl, so pure and untouched by the world’s cruelty, will one day understand the harsh realities that I know too well. But for now, she remains a fleeting vision of innocence, unaware of the darkness that follows. I am lost in this legacy of despair, caught in the web of my own sorrow. The darkness wraps around me like a shroud, and I cannot escape.
Rockets of hatred—of self-loathing—will strike me forever. How I long to embrace this little girl of nine, to feel the warmth of her innocent smile, to experience for just a moment what it might be like to be free from the weight of the world. As I watch her disappear, exasperated and beaten by the currents of life, my soul flares up in frustration. Tears fall from my eyes—tears that have waited so long for a friend, for a daybreak, for the first light of hope to pierce through the darkness.
I am still waiting.