Maolíosa Ní Léannacháin (Write Here, Write Now/ 2nd level finalist)

And now for Maolíosa’s WRITE HERE, WRITE NOW entry ...

HOUSING REALITY

The purity of the moon seeps through my window, a calming cry, an inner echo. Silence shatters my form as an agonizing scream drains sanity from all reason. My worn down blue attire slips slowly off my frame. Darkness has fallen, not just from outside but from within.
I step under the warmth of a metal head fixed to the cold concrete of my bathroom wall. I cannot but see myself as a wilting blossom. To soothe my suffering I shut my eyes. Here I am but a single blade of green standing sharply upright. I look around, my surroundings like a quilt of knives spread over these rolling hills. We are all the same here: that’s what comforts us. But really, are we?
You see this is what social media has done to the youth of society. We stand like grass and only when the lemon-drizzled rays of sunshine fall upon us do we show ourselves. Foolish. Why do we turn a blind eye to night? Why, when a chaotic dance unleashes itself from the heavens do we ignore it?
I have decided to open my eyes.
I step out of the shower, my feet brushing the softness of a snow white towel. Wrinkled fingers clear away the layer of fog that has fallen on the cheval glass. Like always I am saddened by the face that stares back at me. However it’s natural right? – a sixteen year old girl sprinkled not with glitter but blemishes. As I dress my bare body, the scratches and faults that run haphazardly down my sides illuminate themselves under the artificial light of my bedroom. A swirling sorrow sticks deep in my soul. I feel like a jigsaw not a woman.
In a way I find it intriguing. I am a puzzle. We all are: you just don’t physically see the pieces on everyone. So then why does it bother me? This bed cushions my weight as I begin scrolling through Instagram and Facebook. It’s all the same, nothing ever changes. My feed is infested with the lemon-drizzled moments of some six hundred people’s lives. Models from around the world show off their impeccable physiques and flash their white crescent smiles at me. Then I stop.
Envy, awe, hate. These feelings no longer drench my conscience as I scroll. Tonight I have realized we are all unique, individuals. We all have flaws and insecurities. Social media pushes these under the surface. I no longer wish to be lured into a false sense of society. No more shall I shelter my imperfections from the world, for to do so a false painting of my life shall be created. Perfection does not exist. Social media acts as a platform in which we pretend it does.
Let not what we see in these small orthogonal boxes fill our upper stories with inadequacy. As I have only now realised, they are far too small to house reality.


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