And I know, I'm dead on the surface..
And I know, I’m dead on the surface..
But I am screaming underneath.
I was flipping through today’s newspapers dully, just like any other day. My eyes nearly jumped right out of their sockets when I noticed a familiar name on a caption for a picture, whereby a young girl was apparently trying out some new clothes. Eventually I realised that the article was about the upcoming Miss Malaysia/World 2002 Pageant.
And I know that girl in the picture.. I think. Well, I still am not sure, but the name was correct, and it did look like her.
My thoughts were all jumbled up, and I stared in disbelief. I cannot take it – that of all people, she would go for such a thing as taking part in pageants. Then I slowly reminded myself that I still have my doubts on whether was that truly her in the picture – and that it was none of my business anyway. It all seemed crazy, somehow. I did not have sweet memories of this particular girl. We were classmates back in primary school, and back then, school life was basically, well.. hellish. There were bitchy girl groups and so called ‘elite’ cliques, of which the girls would love to make my limited hours in school miserable, beating me up, flicking me away, teasing me endlessly – and to a certain point, they succeeded. Very well.
Well, the girl in the picture was the leader to one of those many cliques. The only consolation I got then was her switching schools during Standard 3, finally leaving me in peace, but the bad memories would not go away – although try as I might, to cram them to the most secluded and hidden spot of my head, the memories are there, lurking, waiting to resurface – like today, stirred by only a harmless picture of her. And if it was not ironic enough, by a stroke of luck, she had enrolled in my high school sometime during Form 4. Bumping into her during classes invoked those old memories.
Have managed to put all those behind me, for the moment. On a totally unrelated note, it is at this time of my life, I realise that as we grow older, things seem to grow more odd, more peculiar, until you feel a tug of reluctance, making you think twice before you actually believe some things that may seem ordinary to the person next to you. I am talking of the yesteryears, and of the future.
In perhaps, ten years time – what would possibly go into your mind then, when you realise that the cute guy you have been eying back in primary school had actually matured and grown up to be the youngest Prime Minister in the country? Or when you had to blink twice and reach for your glasses when you notice that the hot chick singing and strumming her guitar was the shy, bespectacled girl who often sat at the corner of the classroom – and now earning ten times your annual salary, plus having ditched her horn rimmed glasses for a pair of cool shades?
Who knows, perhaps the girl in the picture had changed. And I do not mean to stab her in my journal like what I wrote today, but those words just kept flowing out.
I am so vulnerable. And the sad thing about it is knowing I am scarred, and I doubt I will ever heal.