Stranger

It's 1 am, and my mind is racing. Before attempting to go to bed, I decided to browse through old photos in my drive, deleting the ones taking up space. As I came across a picture of a young girl with collarbone-length hair, idiotically smiling for the camera, I felt a surge of trauma.

Who is she? Why is she smiling? Her smile drives me insane, I thought. Yet, to my disbelief, she is me. I have no recollection of her, of our past. My history is a blur, with that girl in the photo completely forgotten, her memories wiped clean and buried deep within my subconscious. It's embarrassing, to say the least. Most people strive to keep cherished childhood memories alive for as long as they can, and here I am with barely anything to share except vague fragments and remnants of my past, most of which my brain likely manipulated to make them seem significant when they're truly not. Defense mechanisms can be frustrating.

For instance, when I think about that girl in the photo, I immediately label her as a rebel. I convince myself she was too cool and fierce for her age. While others followed the norm, she dared to deviate, just like her anime-obsessed brother who styled his hair with cold gel to make it stand out.

Her brother had an impressive playlist spanning countless genres, from classical to metal. She would copy it onto her mp3 player and proudly show it off to her classmates, who also admired her brother's impeccable taste. She possessed a sharp wit and a talent for sarcasm, even before her peers understood the concept. She saw through people's facades, yet they struggled to see through hers, not because she was a blank canvas, but rather she had difficulty comprehending her own emotions.

Occasionally, she would smile when prompted for a photo, but she couldn't explain why. Perhaps it was because smiling for the camera was the default setting for the majority, and at times, she couldn't help but conform. She had plenty of friends. People were drawn to her, perplexed by her enigmatic nature. However, she struggled to understand herself just as much. It became her downfall. I doubt she ever considered herself cool; quite the opposite, I believe she held a deep dislike for herself. She disliked her friends and family too, much like the other angsty pre-teens saturated in ego, angst, and hormones.

She despised the world and how cruel it could be. Optimism didn't enter her life until she was 13, during an intramural event when the crowd erupted with cheers as she was about to score a goal. Apart from that moment, her existence revolved around criticizing the mess she found herself in. Yet, it wasn't a 'woe is me' attitude. No, she detested playing the victim. She held great disdain for those who wallowed in self-pity. She simply reveled in anger toward the fact that children have little control over the circumstances they are born into. Surprisingly, she didn't grow up as contemptuous as she anticipated. She understood the distinction between pessimism and plain bitterness.

Most people wallow in plain bitterness, obsessing over the past and holding it accountable for all their misfortunes. They grow old, passing time while clinging to the injustices of the past, further tarnishing their already bleak future. In truth, they are cowards deep down—cowards who refuse to confront life's challenges.

Returning to that girl, oh, that girl in the photo. I can't stop nitpicking at the person I was years ago. There's no way I'd ever want to be that girl again. [Deletes photo].