Written more than six months ago:


I could never truly comprehend the different faces of her, the different phases of her, the different facets of her personality. Writers are those who  have been scarred by life. She was no exception. Life had dealt her many blows ,many many blows, some downright cruel. She found the courage to face them , to look life in the eye. She found the courage to get back on her feet every single time, to not be beaten, to not cower down, to never surrender. She found the courage to come out in the open , to express her individuality, to not hide who she was behind a veil of appearances. She wore her  scars proudly on her face. It gave her a rugged, enduring beauty much like a weather beaten rock that proudly faces the onslaught of the ocean.

Those eyes. Volcanic rock that protrudes from white sand, leaving red cracks in its wake. Those think strands of black interspersed by a few strokes of grey and white - an unfinished painting. The sharp line of her nose with a ringlet marking its end. The crimson amidst her brows the golden orbs on her ears the thin wisp of platinum on her neck. Her face. Battered yet proud. It was not a face you could easily forget. She was not a person you could easily understand.