She's only six and I'm thirty-three years old.
I'm gonna say that again because it's so scary to me: She is only six and I'm thirty-three years old.
She looks great playing with the old and dirty doll, inside a room where no one could come to hurt her.
Anyway, I can't believe she looks in peace.
In the meanwhile, I'm suffering.
For the lasted years I've been carrying the biggest packet of suffering in my heart, some people call that kind of suffer as depression, honestly, I don't care about the name anymore. It doesn't matter. Everything that I know is that my heart is full of pain and empty of hope.
And God! She is only six and even that when I looked into her eyes they showed the beauty of the world. I don’t know-how, children can see the world as a beautiful frame?
Every night when the pain is unsupportable I wish I would know how to fix my heart. But I can't.
I've been praying to God and He doesn't look heard until the moment.
I can't ignore my pain and her anymore. Do I have to ask her how she figures that? Maybe she knows how to fix my heart? Maybe there is a spot of hope for a broken heart.
I touched the door handle but I stopped for one-second thinking if I should knock on the door before I open. I decided not. I open the door, my eyes desperate looking for her. She doesn't demonstrate any reaction to the knowledge that I'm in the room. As soon as I walked into the room my eyes meet her eyes, and she gave to me a smile. A little smile, but is one.
She keeps playing with her doll.
I watched her innocent way to play, without fear, without worries.
She's only a girl playing alone and she looks ok with that. I'm waiting for her to tell me something. She doesn't.
Suddenly a thought strikes me: Perhaps the point here is that I supposed to tell her why I'm here.