could you...

“Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that – I love life. But it is hard, and I have so much – so very much to learn…”
-The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath-

I am constantly reminded of how much left there is to learn in this world, in myself. And despite my colossal ignorance, I ache to be loved for me, for who I am now, a woman of both ideals and despair, a woman with so much left to learn. I yearn for these very parts of me, the unfinished pieces and immature unknowing aspects, to be loved. I crave recognition of the very core of who I am. I don’t ask for agreement, only acceptance, an attempt to understand, and the ideal that someone, somewhere, does understand. And yet these desires occur in a state of irony, amidst an internal battle of embracing my connections with others and the fears of revealing my naked soul. I wonder sometimes how raw and honest I can be about myself, with myself, with others. Honesty is often ugly and brutal and murderous, and so most in this world walk around covered in cloaks of disguise, wearing masks that have been worn for so long, too long. Masks, that should they be removed, might reveal unrecognizable faces or perhaps the absence of a face at all. I try to only wear my mask when it must be worn, in those times in which reality tells of the disturbing chaos that would result should I shed my mask. But there are times, even then, when I ache to rip off that mask and show my true face to the world, to myself. Times when I stifle the urge to scream and cry and expose the darkest secrets I hide even from myself. Times when desperation comes, when I need to tell the story of my anger and grief and guilt and disappointments.

But if I told you…could you understand me a little, love me a little?