A battle of a severely sensitive, overly truthful, and enormously prude being is always inside her thoughts.

Her words are rather calculated between the truth and the right thing to say.
The truth despite detrimental consequences, and the right words despite inescapable torments. Clearly, she could pick up and choose, but she doesn't. She does both. Because everytime she tells the truth, she's telling the right thing as well. It lends her sick, possibly wounded and drained, but she never backs off. This became too old, used and familiar to avoid. This was and is her way of living, surviving life, and even when individuals surrounding her is not as prude as she was and is, no one can deter her. Not their lack of sensitivity, nor their absence of responsibility in taking their actions.

Everyone can say she's a masochist, that she embraces pain open-armingly but no, and you have to know that she's not. She does not embrace it. She prays, and prays and prays until its away. She learned and held a not possibly peculiar but thoroughly senseful ideal that she held captive in between several self-wars that she often fed to her sick and barely breathing strength living inside her morale...that most of the time, she doesn't need to embrace pain to let it melt and stream away, she just have to believe that it will. She always does. I always do.





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