A tear trickles down her eye, a pair which seem tired not of
age or overwork, but of the latent sadness of life itself, a clockwork of
dissatisfaction, as she had read somewhere. It crawls down her cheek towards
the nostril, as her face lay tilted, when she snorts it in. There is something
peculiar about consuming your own tears. She considered it as a kind of
solidarity with herself, as the salty tear which was produced in the fluidity
of her own eyes, ultimately doesn’t fall on the keys of the laptop, or on a
page of the book she had been reading at the time, but goes inside her own body.
I see her going through the whole process, over and over
again.
In a moment, she
breaks the pattern and changes the song of the same band that had been playing
for the last twenty minutes now.
“Associations. Fucking associations! They can make you fall
in and out of love with a piece of music.”
She doesn’t really mean it, not with the same intensity.
Although, she has a certain sense of repellence brewing up inside her, when she
listens to that same piece that had made her appreciate its introducer, and
feel appreciated, in turn. Somehow, it made her feel like she was good enough
to listen to that kind of music; like
she deserved it. Now it can’t make her get up in the morning, so she doesn’t. It
loses its “feathers of hope” and rather makes her cringe, leaving her in search
of something else.
I see her naivety, while she is subconsciously thinking of
an Emily Dickinson metaphor for wording her mind. I note the helplessness in
expression, but I can’t do anything to make that better. Does she even want to
make it better? Expression is a twisted thing; I get that from a lot of those
human minds. Once you master that art, there’s nothing left to aspire for. You
reach the pinnacle, and then you are left stranded in a lonely place with
others only feeding on your creation. Perhaps, she knew the truth too closely,
that her creation is only going to be an inspiration, at the end of the day.
Why should she even try? Perhaps, she wanted to be the one feeding herself,
rather than being the bread and wine for others. I can only speculate.
“Sometimes, playing Ostrich is delightful. Putting out the
lights of the room, playing the music, and becoming averse to the world out
there. Like the mosquitoes inside. I bet these silly creatures wish for their
lives, that sucking the blood of a few of us would keep them content,
fulfilled, knowing all along that they’d have to get out in the air sometime,
or they’ll die of inaction.”
I know I am drawn to her with an unusual force, but like a
rational observer, I take note of her examining the strands of her hair, one by
one. The irregularity in the texture of each strand irks her, not like
something unwanted, but rather like the crack in the middle of a wall. She can’t
understand the reason behind it. And she craves for some kind of order and
regularity, over her hair at the very least, since nothing else was in her
control. Or so she thought, which would be in keeping with my previous
observation of her naivety.
She had nothing else to offer that night, since I had carefully
followed her mind. So, I left.
***
She read this account
that I officially submitted the next morning, which left her generally satisfied.
It proved to be ‘real’ enough for her with the part which detailed her naivety.
Too much positivity leaves them in doubt of the authenticity of the observation.
She got what she wanted to know, like so many before her.
