We’d search for that little girl, eyes shining with hope and a pressing need to see the world beyond the borders of the soil on which she grew. The girl who yearned to discard every strand of the mundane and all of society’s hampering notions—notions imbued with prejudice.
Listen. Hear that gentle voice of rebuke, like a mother’s, now building in your head:
“Many is the time I thought to reach you. Many is the time I called your name. Have you not grown past the point you pleaded and grovelled, with bruised knees and tear-stained face, all for to be loved?
“How do you deign to be so ordinary in such a conniving world; wrapping yourself with the sheer fabric of ignorance in the fierce storms of life? Do you not know, have you not heard, that naivety no more is a virtue? That the world holds no patience for the simple and that there are not enough people to trust to chaperon you through life?
Henceforward, you shall enjoy your own soliloquy and gasp at the profundity of your thoughts. Yes, show yourself some love in the plenty of time. You’d sift every friendship, every intention; you’d store the wheat of profitability and let the winds blow away the mundane.
You’d hold your cool through these tough times. For it is the butterfly with broken wings that will not leap up and color the skies with its wings. The poor bird does not sing in its nest. You’d sing your song and bask in the melody of your own voice, yes…even if no one is listening.