Category: stories

The Strange Spinster

“Where are you headed, young lady?” It was like an awakening call of my alarm. It was louder than the tunes that were flooding through my ears, I turned my face at once. From the looks of it, it was rather an old spinster who stood right behind me. I don’t know why I was sure she was a spinster, but she seemed like one. “I am sorry. Are you lost, ma’am?” I asked while removing one of my earphones from my ear. “Is that question intended for yourself or me?” She was heading in my direction. I was entirely confused by her demeanor which was quite rude but also too confident. “I..don’t..I..”. “Oh please, do not stutter! I asked if you were lost and something tells me you really are, are you not?” She elevated her brows beyond her glasses. I am studying her face now. And she seemed very familiar. I tried to recall where I might have seen her before. Normally, I wouldn’t stop for any passengers. But there was something I couldn’t articulate about this woman. 

“Let me save you from your troubles, young lady. No, we haven’t met yet. No, you do not know me. Nor you have seen me before. And no, I am not a neighbor whose face you do not recall. And yes, those are exactly your thoughts.” She grinned widely and started walking in the direction I was headed. I felt coldness down to my spine and I looked around. It was too early for the path to be packed by many. “Are you coming or what?” She inquired. I gathered myself as soon as I can to follow the stranger. A gifted stranger?! No, no. I put my hands in my pocket and paced faster to catch up with the woman. “Normally, people would start to wonder if they have gone crazy when someone, a stranger no less, tells them their thoughts. But, you! You are thinking of a name for me, I guarantee that is quite special. Don’t you think? Oh, would you stop with that already? No one would walk this early! Specially now the rain seems to be habitual at this hour. Walk with me, would you?” “I…I am out of sorts, I believe ma’am. You caught me off guard I must say.” I tried not to show my cowardice. The lady seemed to be in her late 50s. Yet, she is taking the longest strides than me. For the moment, I concentrated on keeping up with her while my mind raced to ask zillions of questions. 

“I must assume you know where I was heading, then.” I finally managed to ask. “Of course I did. I just wanted an opening line to converse. I didn’t want to be a stalker. Oh good heavens, no. I could have walked with you till you notice that our paces were synced. But, I was rather worried you might not catch up with me or notice me for that matter.” She corrected her glasses once again and cleared her throat. “So, young lady.” Her own derisive laugh cut her off. She cleared her throat once again and said “I always loved that phrase. When I was your age, people seldom called me that. But I liked it anyway. Oh, don’t wrinkle those skins yet. Time would do that for you.” I half grinned while touching my forehead lightly. 

“So, wherever you’re from, can I assume you want to talk to me?” I half-heartedly asked the lady of wonders. “I would prefer lady of candor or beauty, if I may.” She chuckled at her own statement. “Ah! In any case, your assumptions are right. But, no. I am not going to talk about pain or suffering with you. ‘I can sympathize with everything except suffering. I cannot sympathize with that. It is too ugly, too horrible, too distressing. There is something terribly morbid in the modern sympathy with pain. One should sympathize with the color, the beauty, and the joy of life. The less said about life’s sores, the better.’ Do you know who said that?” “I remember that I have read it somewhere.” “Oh don’t give me that look! I was giving you a chance to make this two-way conversation. Or should I say it all for both of us? Knowing what is in your head isn’t making this fun for me, by the way. Candor has its own perks. But it, sure, is an ailment.” We almost walked half a mile by now. She proceeded. “You know what they say, ‘To get back one’s youth, one has merely to repeat one’s follies.’ But, here I am telling you being a youth is more than repeating one’s follies. At least in your case, that is. First things first, having too many interests doesn’t make you passionless. Nor having no passion for life is a fault. Not everyone is filled with passion these days. If you can get a few things that can hold you long enough, you would be quite well. Yes, society romanticizes the value of passion in every path we take. But what you should know is, what would be left for you at the end of the path where passion takes you? The moment you achieve it, you would reach a sense of fulfillment, of course. But not for that long. We, humans, are not known for our satiety in life. The moment we get there, we always need more. So it really doesn’t matter if we have a sustainable passion for one, single thing. Rather too much of it will become handy at some point. So enough with torturing yourself for not settling for one passion.” 

While we are crossing the road, I saw a few strands of her grey hair were loose and lying on her face. She tucked them in where they were with no trouble. Hmm, her hair resembled mine. Except it was grayer and shorter. I clutched my jacket as the wind was growing stronger. “Age is a matter of experience, young lady. And also matter of mistakes. The one thing older people share with each other is how many mistakes they ever done over time.” She chuckled and noticed the sky intently. “I don’t think I have much time with you, after all. The dawn is fading.” She stood right before me and held my arms tightly. “Here’s the other thing I wanted to tell you. When you wake from your sleep tomorrow…” My hysterical laughter cut her off mid-sentence. “I am not asleep, for sure.” I squealed. She half grinned and continued. “When you wake from your sleep tomorrow, you are going to see a different realm of the world you have been living in. For once, your obsession with the parallel universe would pay off, perhaps. Call it the new realm or a new universe. I would leave that to you. But, what I want you to know is, as much as this life seems dull and uninteresting in your eyes, that is not only for you. Anyway, you can still survive the common bickering of the society and the inauthenticity of everything. In the meantime, you should have a heyday of your life for once. You cannot analyze everything before happening. You should let yourself feel and be there in the moment. Mistakes aren’t to be avoided. A few of them, in fact, make life wondrous. You are allowed to have some setbacks. It wouldn’t kill you to have few.” 

I felt hot tears prickling my eyes. I swallowed and saw my strange company right in her eyes. She seems to have my eyes, too. But hers were surrounded by wrinklier skin than mine. I cleared my throat to thank her. But she gave me a look that assured me that she already knew what I was going to say. I closed my eyes to help myself think. But when I opened my eyelids, I was standing by myself. I looked around to see where she could possibly go. There was no sight of her. “Well, that would be the best ending for a strange morning,” I muttered to myself and continued my walk. I couldn’t help but wonder how much resemblance we had with the woman. She was far more interesting than me, though. 

When my alarm buzzed, I searched for my glasses drowsily. I was asleep. Moments ago, I was sure I wasn’t. Apparently, I was asleep on my desk. I must have slept while reading. I yawned and stretched my body. I cleared my eyes to look at what I have been doing a few hours before. “Oh, the dream!” I nearly screamed. “Oh, it was a dream.” I stood in the middle of my room confused. The weird thing is I recall the dream with much more clarity than I ever recalled any other dream. The rain started to tickle the roof. I paced in my room from one point to another. But there was no other explanation for it, except it was a dream. The rain intensifies as well as the coldness. I picked up my jacket from the pile and clutched myself in it. My fingertips sensed a piece of paper inside the pocket. As I unfold it, it read “The Strange Spinster”. I gaped at the paper for a long while. 

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A Conversation with Gertrude Stein.

“We all fear death and question our place in the universe. The artist’s job is not to succumb to despair. But to find an antidote for the emptiness of existence.” She said, loudly. “Yes, yes, Gertrude. I get what you are saying. And I wouldn’t dare to contradict you.” She gave me a weak grin as if she knew that I am going to. “But…”, I went on. “…How can one write about something she doesn’t know? Specially when there is something one is fully acquainted with!  Despair! I cannot only write about it. I can tell you the building blocks. I can tell you how those blocks come into being. I can tell you about the edifice. The Edifice of Despair! I might be romanticizing about it a bit…” “A bit?!” She cut me off mid-sentence. “You are head over hills for despair. You are not only obsessed, but you’re also madly in love with it. Why can’t you see beyond your despair? You know there’s something beyond the reef, don’t you?” I sighed deeply. So deep, I felt my ribs protruding. “I like your writings.” She proceeded. I am sure my eyes almost popped out in unbelief. “I do. I just think your soul is not in any of them.” She stressed her point probably noticing my surprise. “It is a muffled scream located from beyond. I hear the echo. Not even the first echo. The third, weakest echo which is disappearing into the air. Where is your sound?” She posed for a moment trying to come up with a better explanation of what she said. Or is she reconsidering her comments? I usually think I can read and interpret people’s faces. But sometimes it is beyond difficult. The contours on her face couldn’t give me a hint of her thoughts. 

“Sure, write about it. Write about despair as if it is the only thing to be written about. But…” she is pointing her finger directly at me along with her soul-piercing eyes. I break off eye contact immediately. I can’t stand people staring at me. “But…” she almost yelled the moment my eyes started wandering. “Find your voice! Stop mumbling. Quit this muffling nonsense and step out into the world. Tell me the depth of despair out in the light. Shout it out at the top of your lungs until my ears are deafened. That would be the first step of something.” “Yeah…” That was the single word I could utter at the end of her speech. “The muffled noise” My brain registered the phrase. She is right, of course. I’m barely making a sound, let alone a noise. It can’t even ripple the surface, don’t bother to see a splash. But finding my voice is going to be hard. It is going to be harder than finding myself. Oh wait, I didn’t find myself yet. In fact, I don’t think I will ever find it. But- maybe finding your ultimate voice, even in an imaginative world might be easier. Just maybe. 

The next day, while I was lying on my bed, a heavy knock at my door woke me up. It was Gertrude Stein at my door. I was more than surprised to recognize her voice as it was coming a few steps away from my door. “Gertrude?” I sounded sappy because I was trying my hospitable voice while trying to hide my surprise. “You’re even weirder” She almost knocked me down as she entered to my tiny apartment. And she was right, I am weirder at home. I didn’t know what my next steps should be. I felt like I stared at her for two full minutes. “Stop standing there as statue. Bring me a coffee if you have any. Otherwise, sit. I felt like we left off things hanging on a cliff.” I almost ran to the kitchen to prepare coffee for my house guest. I was too conscious about my every move. I feel her eyes on me the whole time. When I half turn my face, I saw she is not even looking at me. I exhaled the heavy air off my chest. “What brought you here, Gertrude?” I asked. “Coffee is a lot more than just a drink; it’s something happening. Not as in hip, but like an event, a place to be, but not like a location, but like somewhere within yourself. It gives you time, but not actual hours or minutes, but a chance to be, like be yourself, and have a second cup.” I figured she wanted me to be seated first. “I didn’t know you were a coffee person.” I requested, but she didn’t respond. 

She started talking when I settle with my mug in front of her. “You will write if you will write without thinking of the result in terms of a result, but think of the writing in terms of discovery, which is to say that creation must take place between the pen and the paper, not before in a thought or afterward in a recasting…It will come if it is there and if you will let it come.”  She went on after a sip. “After all everybody, that is, everybody who writes is interested in living inside themselves in order to tell what is inside themselves. That is why writers have to have two countries, the one where they belong and the one in which they really live. The second one is romantic, it is separate from themselves, it is not real but it is really there.” 

“But it’s so frightening, Gertrude.” My voice shrieked. “Nothing is really so very frightening when everything is so very dangerous.” She said and continued to see me right in the eye. The woman had answers for every question I might raise. She is still waiting for me to say something. All of a sudden I felt like I actually lost my real voice. “A very important thing is not to make up your mind that you are any one thing.” She broke the stillness with her bold voice. “You cannot only be despair. I’m sure there are left over pieces here and there. Gather them. Or don’t. Why should a sequence of words be anything but a pleasure? Just remember, there is more of you. Even in this Lost Generation, there is more of you.” She didn’t say another word for long. The thrill of having a houseguest was overwhelming. But I was trying hard not to let it get me. She studied my face for a while. But she didn’t say much. When she was done with her coffee, she left the apartment at once. 

It was the buzzing sound of my alarm that awakened me. It was 4a.m. in the morning. I must have dozed off for an hour or so. I rubbed my eyes to see where I am. I am not in France. It is not the 1920s. It was all a dream. It was in an alternate reality I had two days long conversation with Gertrude Stein.

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A Memoir of Trapped Girl.

She felt her cold hands. She must have laid on the floor for almost 6 hours. She inhaled deeply, her whole body stretched and her eyes twitched when she felt the coldness through her linen-layered back. The rain must have stopped. She can only listen to a drizzle on the outside. She opened her eyes. But she couldn’t see a thing. It is almost midnight, she surmised. She gathered herself to turn on the light. 

Her eyes struggled to close again to fight the brightness of the light. Once again, she wanted to lie on the floor. Not that it changes anything, not that she could think better nor she would be comfortable, but it had its own solace and cordiality. For the last few hours, all she could manage to think about was if the ground could handle her weight. She felt so heavy along with her sadness that nothing would be able to hold her weight. It was at moments like this she turned to words. Not words to speak of. But words to imprint on her notebook, phone, or anywhere she can engrave them. She goes back and forth on the idea that words are great weight holders than anything.

“A girl escaped death but was trapped to live.” She writes. “The moment she escaped death, she thought she was free from every shackle. The power of escaping, running away from a thing is enthralling. The feeling is exhilarating. Nothing seems impossible. No amount of chain would seem enough to hold you captive. How little did she know then?!” Her eyes took a break to stare at the wall. “Nothing, no one is free in this world. The moment you escape the prison of death, you are yet entering a new prison. A prison of life! That’s a much worse prison, to be honest. You are trapped in every way imaginable.” But she couldn’t go on further. 

Her hands are tied to write because her eyes couldn’t stand the flickering light rays out of the lamp. Besides the coldness is antagonizing, every time her fingers moved she felt pain. She turned off the light but her brain couldn’t stop crafting sentences. The words that were occupying her empty thoughts are rearranging themselves in a certain order. She couldn’t say if that was a blessing or a curse. But there is no off switch for her brain to stop schematizing the words she found interesting. 

After an hour or so she was still wide awake. But after forming zillions of phrases and sentences, she felt her mind going quiet. Like she is weightless and free. The arrangement, the words, the sentences, they might or might not make sense. But she felt the solemnity of the night, the tranquility of the air, and the straight line in her head.

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The Girl with Freckles. 

“What exactly do you like about the rain?” She almost whispered it to his ears. The heavy pour was making all the sounds disappear. The thunder was roaring once in a while. He knows she doesn’t usually like to raise her voice. But this time, she did raise her voice even though it came out like a whisper. “What is there not to like about it?” he said. Her chuckle which hid her scoff cut him off. “Wha…t? What are you scoffing for?” He was expecting her pretentious, almost always pre-formed opinion about it. Not that he hates it, it just kills the mood or his fervor when it happens. His fondness for rain couldn’t be less changed because of this. But, he was giving her a chance to say more about it. “You know I don’t like it when you talk about things in hyperbole. This is just a talk. Not a poem or story. Just state it plainly. Like in the real world. Not like hanging up in some fantasy. As if you’re taken aback by the former world. So, what do you like about rain?”

He wanted to say how non-artistically artistic her response was. But he was afraid another scoff would cut him off again. “I love rain. I feel like the sky is letting go of some pressed-on feelings at once. I like how it cancels all the other noises. I love how people are scared of it. The serene helps me think. The quietness gives me solace. And the thunder helps me sleep. Watching nature acting up salves my pain.” Her solemn look gave him the courage to rant about his true feelings regarding the rain. “I like how it quiets down the crowd of the city. I love the spontaneity. You could guess it might rain. But it will surprise you whenever it does.” He gazed to the outside as they were sitting beside the glass window. The fat droplets are thinning down. It almost seemed like a drizzle now. He wanted another cup of coffee. A hot cup of coffee as he was feeling the cold air down his spine. She was too far gone into the wind. Or the rain. He knows how much she detests the cold. And the rain, too. So it is highly probable she was trying to see his point just for the sake of it. But she really seems to be taken away. 

“What about the grey color?” She asked all of a sudden. He almost choked on his coffee. “What about the black and white mode of the view? How did you not mention that?” She was looking at his face. “yeah, yeah…there is that too. Wait, since when are you interested in the rain?” He asked a bit eagerly. “I don’t know. Well, people change! Isn’t that what you say every time?” She responded while touching the freckles on her face. It was a habit she does whenever she was thinking deeply. In a way, she felt like her outside was reflecting the inside. Who could see the freckles of her soul? Who could feel the unhealed bumps when one is void of freckles? He wished to touch their bounds. It was like the art of constellations which he couldn’t recall the name of. 

“he..llo!” She waved her hands across his view. He woke from the daydream he was having. The rain was intensifying once again. “Yeah, I…I never thought of it that way. Somehow I’m taken by the golden hours. Unlike my usual likings, the golden hours of the dawn have some effect on me. But now you have mentioned it, that could be one of my reasons. I just didn’t know it yet.” He gave her a smile mixed with a sigh. He always stammers when he is caught off guard. She kept playing her fingers on the strings of her freckles. And he was once again taken. Her freckles matched her brown eyes. Her eyes might seem dark just like her hair. But with appropriate lighting, she is a brown-eyed girl with a brown hair complexion. 

The quietness is blooming on the streets. The rain seems to take a pause for a while. They roamed over the streets quietly. And the nighttime was hastening to conquer the day.

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Insomnia Café: Expired Moods

I wish to raise my voice,

Out-loud!

To everyone to hear it.

I don’t want to nod along,

With every idea you bring.

I don’t want to be imprisoned-

With the fear of conflict,

Or confront.

I wish to say what I feel,

The way I feel it,

Not as I’m supposed to,

Not the way you dictate it.

I don’t want you to pity-

Me or my countenance,

Or behavior or virtues.

For once,

I don’t want to grant an acknowledgment, 

For the tag you provided.

What if I am more than-

Mere Lady Creativity! 

What if I’m so much more than-

The quiet model of subtlety! 

What if I don’t want to be,

The muse you wish to see.

What if I want to roar,

At the top of my lungs,

For everyone to hear,

Until the room shakes,

Or the windows rattle,

What if I can be me?

Just me!

Without the responsibilities or requirements! 

What if I want to contradict everything you say?

Your presumptions and logic.

What if I laugh out loud,

At your hysteria and simple mind?

What if I take out my amiability-

From the pictures, you had of me?

What if I declare-

My true feelings and emotions,

Without giving my regard,

Other than myself.

What if you see the ‘wrong’ color of prospects?

What if none shall matter to me from now on?

Do you wish my company the same?

Or do you like all the things I do-

To be the reflections of your desires?

All your unattainable desires!

Impossible deeds to be performed by none!

Proprieties to be conducted by pawns!

I aligned with your rules,

And your requirements, 

With nary arguments.

To kill my true self,

And dreams I had.

Only to gain shells of a kind,

To be cleaned and polished.

To find myself now,

Dropped in lagoons of personalities,

In the sea of the dead,

Dead, expired moods.

Insignificant, unimportant images I once cherished.

All to be tied with destitute, now.

Not one of them to matter,

Or weigh an ounce.

Yes, I’m still alive! 

Only to be surrounded, 

By the morbid, I collected.

I light a candle,

Once in a while,

To the moods I killed!

My moods that expired! 

My enthusiasm I buried!

My convictions I have sent away!

My strong beliefs I extinguished!

The greatness I once acquired!

The orderly plan I once had,

Only to be captivated,

With fear and strain.

I, Lady Creativity, wish to resign-

From the life of yearning.

I wish to wallow in my pain,

For as much as I want, 

Without bearing your pain,

Or trying to be healed.

Without being forced to figure it out,

Or map the blueprint. 

Without yielding to your requests,

Or heavy yokes you detest,

Without carrying you through it,

While you are being protected and cared for.

I should learn to confront,

Without being tortured by guilt,

Or ached by wounded pride.

I wish to recover from the madness-

All the madness I went through alone,

When no one was looking,

In my solitude, 

Alone in the crowd.

Allow me to be gentle,

To my wounded heart,

To mend the tears that opened,

In my failed attempt of closing them.

Yes! Life is built amongst others,

Friends and acquaintances.

We find our true nature and color,

Amidst those who are closer.

We share one another’s burdens and secrets,

In the light of that spirit.

But, would you rather call it fair?

If the burden is to be shared only by one,

A single individual, rather than both.

Would it really be friendship or relationship-

Of any kind of sort,

If one carries and the other just dumps?

If one becomes the bruised lad,

While the other keeps punching?

If Depression keeps hitting,

Do I keep being knocked out?

If I can no longer press the juice,

Out of my misery-

If I cannot be creative 

To ease the pain I endure,

If I digress to be happy 

When I thought my ache is gone,

Would I call that a relation?

Or a mere prison?

Would it be a passion,

Or a typical death potion?

Resentments and I are truly unfriendly.

But, it sweeps over my door once in a while.

Not regarding my marriage to Depression,

Rather about my life as a matron.

If anything my identity as a social paragon.

Or all the things I acquire as reputation.

But again,

Do not dismiss me yet,

Allow me to grow,

And be my own mellow.

Don’t grant me a title,

For being the perfect model,

Because eyes might deceive,

But words shall be candid.

She quit scribbling not because she ran out of words or reached a resolution for her climax. That could never be the case. But it felt relaxing enough to share her deepest thoughts in her secret notebook.  With that, Lady Creativity put her secret notebook back in the place where she usually keeps it. Looking at the wooden box, she reminisced all the great memory it holds from her childhood. An uncontrollable smile crossed her face for a moment. She proceeded to the bathroom to polish herself for the coming day. The golden hour of the dawn hasn’t arrived yet. But she wanted to visit the café before the day catches up with her. Her insomniac brain and eyes needed the magic of the caffeine!

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A Monologue on my Notebook

Saturday mornings and Sunday afternoons are perhaps the epitome of my week. The very reason that I’m not yoked by duties for the day brightens my Saturday more than anything. The very fact I do not have to engrave a smile on my face or act amiably towards anyone highlights the day. The freedom of doing anything, literally anything, is the utmost satisfaction. I can do something which I think is good rather than being dictated by someone that I should do this or that without being reminded of the consequences of my actions. Oh, the tale of freedom we tell ourselves! None of us are free, indeed. But for once in a week, a brighter morning, despite whatever the weather may look, the morning of freedom strikes. Of the 168 hours of the week, the few hours of the morning tend to dictate my leisure time.

Since I’m on the discourse of freedom, I do not wish to bound the day with a schedule or strict planning. But writing, reading, or even sleeping till the wake of the day is proved to make the day more than productive. Creating the world of imagination, and escaping reality for mere hours would certainly remedy the sour taste, rather a state of my life for once.

But if the weekend’s few hours tend to depict the brief summary of my week, then, I should mention the dreariness of Sunday afternoons. “Time flies when you are having a good time”, they say. The quality time I spent starting from Saturday morning till the very end of a week and beginning of another, marks to be the shortest period. All of a sudden, wherever I’m suited at the moment, it dawns on me the horror of facing, yet, another similar week. The fake smiles, uncontrolled agreeableness, escaping reality by “not living” but distracting oneself, and so many others follow like the dominos effect. And everything comes together like puzzle pieces. The cycle comes back! The coming and going like a machine of the sort would be once again attained. For the most part, when I realize that I’m not doing it for myself, I keep discussing it with my notebook. I cannot make a sound about this, anyway. But my notebook shall take all the screaming silences I endure.

And, just like that, another week begins! Another Monday arrives with all the baggage it carries.

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Vanity

I walk around holding the void in my hands. I act normal and tranquil with what I have. For many, I appear to be fine, perhaps great. The futile life of mine is spreading like poison throughout my veins. I savor the bitter taste in my blood whilst feeling the ache in my bones. Fragility is the new feature of my body. I walk, and yet I hear the crackling sounds of my bone, the ticking bomb in my head, and the rising tide in my heart.

I used to wonder how emptiness can be powerful enough to feel a void. Because the moment the void is filled with emptiness, it becomes a deserted island altogether with itself. Emptiness filled my void, then I became the great beholder of vanity for I am altogether vacant now.

Behold, the moment emptiness bewitched me, I became vacant of vacant. Who else would fight me to behold the title of vain anymore?

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Insomnia Café: Discourse on Romantic Wrinkles

Life is something that happens when you can’t get to sleep.

Fran Lebowitz

The afternoon was a quiet time on mundane days. Unless new visitors are to be acquainted with the place, the constant members were not to be seen during those hours. Ms. Coffee was tidying up while humming a song she listened to earlier. At that very moment, she started to wonder what today’s discourse would be. Although she never suggested or commented on the issues, she always enjoyed listening intently to the ideas around the table. They usually occupy her mind in her leisure time. 

While she was pondering on her understanding of healing, Mr. Cynic walks into the café. He distorted the pattern of her thought at once, she hastened in his direction. “Mr. Cynic, how odd to see you at this hour? How are you today, sir?” “I’m well, Ms. Coffee. Would you do me a favor and bring me a fresh, brewed coffee?” He wished to conclude the conversation before she lingered to inquire him about his day. He needed a cup of coffee in his blood before he endured any conversation with anyone. 

Moments later, Lady Creativity walks into the café. She sat beside him in silence since she felt his negative aura all over the place. When he realized that she was not going to utter a word about his countenance, he whispered a greeting to acknowledge her presence. She only said hi. Neither he nor she was in the mood to chat. 

After an hour of silence and consumption of two cups of coffee, they glanced at each other. “do you wish to talk about it?”, he sighed. “Only the subject,” she replied picking her cup once again. “Mine would be about romantic wrinkles,” he sighed again. She gaped at him feeling like he read her thoughts. “was that what your subject was, too?” He gave her a half-grin while playing with the spoon in one hand. “I wouldn’t dream of a better phrase. Besides, it is quite uncommon to hear you use that phrase. From the looks of it, you were the one person I would’ve guessed to win over his emotion more than anyone else. Are you married, sir?” He was not surprised by her remark for he has heard it too many times by now. No one ever knew or guessed what become of him was because of too many emotions he had felt once. Perhaps, too many times. 

“Lady Creativity, did you really think I was always like this? Yes, I am not married. But, I have loved. And I’ve been heartbroken. Did you think one can mention the topic of healing as a mere objective observer of pain? Don’t you think that was a hint of emotional bewilderment I had with myself?” He waited for her reply. “Yes, but, surely romantic wrinkle wouldn’t be my first guess. You are so content with yourself, Mr. Cynic, we barely think of you as vulnerable given to emotions like ourselves. I do not wish to be an additional person to misunderstand you or put you in a box that you don’t fit. But that is the usual assumption one could get from few acquaintances.” “Do not worry, I’m not offended. You just seem to be a keen observer and I wanted to hear your first impressions of me.” He said and both chuckled forgetting the cloud of sadness they wore in their eyes. 

“How do you come up with such a title, though?” She inquired. “Because…” Both felt his shortage of words was because of unrecovered wounds of love. “I avoided romance for the fear of agony it would result. For the wrinkles and scars that would be imprinted on my heart. And yet, I stood wrinklier than ever for all the times I’ve let myself feel love.” He tried to hide his despair in a rather few words. Words that could never suffice the reality of truth he felt inside. “I bet this is not an issue for you now that you’re married?” He rather stated than asked. Lady creativity gave him a smile that did not reach her eyes and said, “you would be amazed to see the wrinkles of my heart if it were ever possible. I am forever tied to my pain and the ultimate cause of my wrinkles. Yes, I do not resent or regret the life I have. I most definitely am what I am because of it. But, wrinkles! Oh, the wrinkles would never fade or straighten because you are married, that I can say for sure.” “You must not be talking about the wrinkles around my eyes…”, said Mr. Exhaustion settling beside Lady Creativity. “I wouldn’t dare, for million years! Your Greatness!”, said Creativity in not so loud voice. “I’ve never heard of that title before. Is that, by any chance, your real name, sir?” Followed Mr. Cynic. “yes, yes. I once was Mr. Greatness. Big deal! So the wrinkles?!”, replied Exhaustion.

The squad seems to gather after a while. Miss Imagination and Over-thinker came together following the engaged couple. “Romantic Wrinkle! Why would you link such words together? It is unfit to hear.”, shuddered Miss Imagination while adding sugar to her latte. “Just drink your latte,  Hallucination.”, called out Exhaustion. “I believe there is no better combination for these two words. I…”, gulped on his coffee and continued. “I believe the huge waves of love are more than capable of forming crinkles on one’s heart. And it would be more than wrong to assume that anyone is free from them. It could not be romantic love per se. But the love you have for your mother, or friends or to life itself results in a wrinkle time and time again.”

Everyone pondered on his comment for a while. Ms. Over-thinker then remarked, “even the love you have for your thoughts, the obsession you have for definitions in life, or affection and admiration you give for things you construed in your head are powerful enough to scar you for life. To scar your innocent heart due to the lengthened affection you acquire.” Ms. Coffee cleaned up the table while silence reigned amongst them. 

“Can we talk about something happy now?”, inquired Imagination after a while. “Please do, darling”, said Anxiety eagerly. Mr. Cynic and Lady Creativity exchanged a look for a moment and exhaled. The night went on in a pleasing tone filled with laughter while these two kept on zoning out for the most part. Anxiety followed talking about her exciting day, and everyone seemed to enjoy the merry spirit. As it was Friday night, all stayed for a bit longer than usual. 

Near to midnight though, only Mr. Cynic and Lady Creativity remained where they were. “I feel like a statue sitting here for so long”, said Cynic. “Aren’t we a statue, a moving statue anyway? We rise, walk, and sit being polished for someone else to see. Straightening the wrinkles of our hearts not to resurface on our skins? But yes, we are numbed for sitting for too long, aren’t we?” She returned her face to his. “For more romantic wrinkles on the way!” He raised his glass of water to collide it with hers. She nodded with a shred of agony on her face. “I must leave now. Tomorrow has already begun. I should go and polish myself, don’t you think?”, said Mr. Cynic and left the shop at once.

She rather lingered at the shop scribbling a few words in her notebook. And when she finally took her eyes off her notes, she saw her husband walking in her direction. He did not leave her as the letter he left suggested. He reached and hugged her tightly for so long. She felt her eyes wet, her throat closing up, and her heart forming, yet, another wrinkle.

0

 Insomnia Café: Antique Shop and A Salon.

When you have insomnia, you’re never really asleep, and you’re never awake. 

Antiquity is bestowed on the place in every corner. Everywhere you look there lies an original and ancient look tidying up the place. The front counter is surrounded by great paintings. There are multiple coffee makers collected from many places. The cultural, and yet the modern webs gave the place a peculiar view. 

Today’s salon (a regular meeting of writers, artists…) was about healing. Since almost everyone had a pain of their own, the issue was not to be taken lightly. The new member of the group, Mr. Cynic, started by saying there is no way one can be healed completely. All the eyes looked in his direction. He took a sip of his coffee and continued. “If pain is inevitable, and life is a continuum reality of pain, hardship, and disappointment, how is it possible for the ultimate existence of healing?” Anxiety pressed her lips and continued to consume her latte with all fury there is. While trying her best in monitoring her tone, she uttered a mumble. Mr. Cynic looked in her direction. She sighed again and said, “you cannot possibly think that’s a mere definition of life, can you? If so, how dark your life must be? If it was not for the hope of better days and alleviation of pain, how can anyone get out of bed to live for today? Do you even hear yourself?” The last two sentences were filled with uncontrolled vibration and a hint of disgust. “All I’m trying to say is,” continued Mr. Cynic, “there is no absolute state of healing where one can reach. Yes, I agree with what you have said, at least partly. My point is that you could find a way to manage your pain or even alleviate it to some extent. But, can we call that a healed state?”

Lady Creativity cleared her throat and said, “I get what you are trying to say, Mr. Cynic. But I think there is that level of inner peace and ultimate cordial state of oneself, after all. In a heat of the moment, that could seem like a very far-fetched phase. My question is this: when you say healing, are you trying to say the restoration of one’s health to a previous state or is there a new state one can reach to?” Mr. Exhaustion pulled his strength to point out his belief. “If healing is defined as restoration, I will definitely side with the newbie here. There is no way one can ever fully wipe out his fatigue with or without time. But, a new kind of health is a little bit of something we don’t know. So I believe there may be is that kind of healing.”

While Exhaustion was talking Ms. Over-thinker was looking for a quote she read on the left wall of the coffee shop. 

“One always has exaggerated ideas about what one doesn’t know.” Albert Camus. “The Stranger.” 

As soon as he was done talking she read the quote out loud. Multiple pairs of eyes shifted towards the left. “I’m just saying,” continued Ms. Over-thinker while fidgeting her fingers through a strand of her hair. “What if we are thinking high of this new state since we do not know about it? Can we really rely on this definition of healing for something we don’t really know? I do not believe in complete restoration for that matter, but I cannot, in my right mind, settle for something I cannot comprehend let alone define in my own words.” Ms. Coffee rose to refresh their drink and to help Mr. Tea around the counter since new customers were entering the shop.

“So what if you cannot comprehend it? Can you not imagine it?” Ms. Imagination followed. “If you can think about it this much, you already have a map for it. And if you can imagine it, I think it’s powerful enough to exist.” She continued to fill on her chocolate cookie. All of them were staring at her as if she was an alien of some sort. That was classic Imagination. She was too naïve for this world. For her, life was that simple definition that can be articulated in her mind without being sifted through the crude reality. 

Not a single person dared to say anything after her last comment. This was a new level of innocence she portrayed today. Mr. Stress, who was sensing the intense atmosphere, broke the silence with the quickest wit he could think of. “If life was always bright, we wouldn’t have invented flashlight, would we?” He grinned to himself. Everyone smiled at that comment. “Look Hallucination (he was the one who gave Imagination this name, and she did not like it), you may think just the way you said it. But life is not all about imagination. If that’s the case, it is a hallucination. It cannot be real. Imagination is a sprinkle of life. You cannot really define the main dish with an extra of your dessert. For the record, I do not think stress/pain can ever be fully overcome. I’m with Mr. Cynic on this one.” 

The debate continued for quite some time. It got so late that the city was starting to sleep. Silence and darkness reigned the town except for this one corner. Insomnia was the greatest bonding feature for the customers of this place. They no longer see it as a problem or negative quality. The solace of being awake and cautious of your surrounding was a blessing rather than a curse. For Creativity, it was one of her favorite hours. Ms. Over-thinker shines during the nighttime. The betrothed couple, Anxiety and Stress, wouldn’t call it a blessing per se. And yet it wouldn’t be the worst part of the day. Mr. Cynic never had a fondness for sleep. His underlying question about the matter was his wonder about dreams and where exactly sleep would take him. Almost all of them were always awake even if they miss a visit to the café. But can you really be awake when you have insomnia? That was a real inquiry. 

But later that night, at her home, Lady Creativity scribed these words. Healing is, well, healing. No one has ever reached the ultimate state. Even if they say they do, it is impossible not to imagine they are probably just saying it out of denial or temporary relief of some sort. But I would be delighted if they really achieve it as they actually say. Based on my own keen observation, I must say, healing is neither a restoration nor abolition of pain. It is rather a new contract signed with pain and scar. Whoever felt intense pain, is doomed to live with the scars it resulted. And a scar is never to be replaced with new skin nor to be the way it was. And pain is a constant company. It is highly unlikely for it to leave once it is acquainted. 

As she put down her pen, she looked right at her husband. She was engulfed with immediate joy when she saw he was sleeping today. Mr. Depression moved to his other side as if he felt her stare. She stood up to brew herself, yet another coffee. The night was almost ending, and she was creating. 

0

Insomnia Café: A Prologue

Insomnia is a glamorous term for thoughts you forgot to have in the day.

-Alain de Botton.

On the street corner of a certain city, there was a café called “Insomnia Café”. It was a great antiquity coffee shop in the city. It was inhabited by constant customers. Ms. Coffee, the owner of the shop, has maintained the property for quite some time. Rumor has it, the opening of the coffee shop goes back to 5/6 centuries back. Although Ms. Coffee is not the first manager of the place, the name has been coming down from generation to generation. It was almost a title to be held the moment anyone assumed the position. Her fellow co-workers such as Mr. Tea were not unpopular either. 

The café has quite a schedule every single day. Unlike many other shops, it doesn’t consent to any rules. Amongst the constant customers, Ms. Anxiety, Mr. Stress, Mrs. Creativity (the oldest member of the group), Mr. Exhaustion and Ms. Imagination (Hallucination, as some would like to call her) are the constant dwellers. There were rather some occasional guests like Ms. Over-thinker, who comes during the quiet hours to avoid the constant meetings. If Ms. Over-thinker is to be present, that means she wants to be distracted by constant conversations. No one wonders where she goes if she were absent. But they always enjoyed her company when she was around. This was especially true for Ms. Anxiety and Mr. Stress.

During the morning time, Mrs. Creativity and Mr. Exhaustion are the first attendants. Ms. Coffee starts to serve her best beverages with them. Lady Creativity comes up with a fresh outlook on the day along with the cold air of the morning. Mr. Exhaustion, almost always, tries to steal her energy to wipe off his ludicrous face before he goes to his office. Ms. Coffee sits beside Creativity to get inspired for the day. She usually ends up painting or quoting her idea on the wall. She was the very reason why she loved her job. 

Ms. Coffee was not always happy about her shop. Stress and Anxiety were her living shreds of evidence for that very reason. If it was up to her, she sometimes wonder to change the shop into a restaurant or something else. Mr. Insomnia, her great great grandfather, was not a very healthy man per se. Some would like to refer to him as Inso-maniac. Ms. Coffee had obtained his notes from his room very recently. She figured that her former families did not find or cared for the content. But, he pointed out that coffee was his enemy and savior multiple times. As many would do, her family chose the positive one rather than the negative one. No one even knew his problem. His despair was discarded more than his joyful moments. Ever since then, she sometimes feels guilty as if she was selling poison to the crowd. But, Creativity was her very reason to look forward to the next day. 

Mr. Exhaustion was the very reason she wanted to quit the job. She never had enough amount of drink to take away his exhaustion. Morning time was the worst. He is always cranky, but usually quiet as if he was mad at everyone. She keeps her distance to give him all the space he wanted. He always comes around a few hours later. 

Lady Creativity, the most respected member of the group, was always the source of the topics for the discussion. Even occasional guests leave the shop with such admiration and respect every time they visited. No one knew that she was married to Mr. Depression 20 years ago except Ms. Coffee. That was one of the reasons to leave her home at her earlier convenience. She never resented marrying him, though. It brought the very best side of her for so long. Besides, except on the worst days, her husband is the greatest fan and critic she has. Mr. Depression was also a customer at the café, although no one recognized him as that. He came early or very late before anyone arrives to grab his coffee. His rush and negative aura made it impossible for anyone to give him a second look let alone recognize who he was.  

On his good days, he enjoyed the company of his wife and Ms. Coffee too. This was also one of the resolving points regarding the dilemma of Ms. Coffee. She was always satisfied by his appearance. Part of her must be relieved for Lady Creativity, too.

The café was not that large when it comes to its size. But it could accommodate around 50 or more people on average. The arrangements of the chairs were to suit any kind of customer. The sofas were usually used by the permanent members. The long tables attached to the glass walls were used by the solitude lovers. The hard chairs were usually used by those who choose to be dispassionate about coffee or any extra activities for that matter. They visit the shop out of the mere necessity of the day, they just don’t want to accept that it was being a need to go through their days. They are usually with books or magazines to occupy their hands which is to mean they are the busiest member of their surrounding. That was why, unlike the solitude lovers, whenever discussions and arguments filled the air, the dispassionate members hurried to leave. It was like their cue to leave the place. 

But, one day, an exception to this group was found. His name was Mr. Cynic. As much as he was trying to avoid the constant gatherings, he couldn’t help himself not to say anything regarding the issue on the table. It was hard to say he fitted in that group. But he was always oblivious to what was happening in his surrounding. But, that day marked the additional member of the group. Lady Creativity enjoyed his company most. Ms. Anxiety and Mr. Stress did not like him by a bit. Ms. Coffee was glad when she saw him socializing. Ms. Anxiety wanted to defend herself so much she almost spilled her coffee at his face. Ms. Over-thinker was trying to figure out her true reactions toward him. Everyone was intrigued by his countenance for he could not care about any of the reactions he was getting. 

0

Inescapable Sadness

“There is this inescapable sadness that I go through every now and then.” She sighed audibly and continued. “At first, I used to know what it really was. I could tell the reason or use a label to name the incident I’m going through. In time, it got worse. It did not get better. And now, all I know is the pain is spread throughout my body.” She took a pause, not for an effect though. She recalled a quote she heard or read somewhere. “That’s the thing about pain: it pursues us until we are engulfed in a wall of misery and sadness.” She pondered on the quote internally. She remembered how much she did not relate to the quote back then. And now, she was amazed thinking how much she can rearrange the quote.

“Perhaps, you are wondering, is there an inescapable sadness?” She inquired her company wondering if he is actually listening to her whilst questioning herself why she is talking about this at all. He remained quiet trying to concentrate on her words. As much as he loves this friendship, he was almost always sure he did not get her. He was always amazed by her choice of words, though. He was sure she would go on if he kept quiet and considered the question as rhetoric. “Is there a sadness which can be completely replaced with true happiness and joy?” He was right, she started talking after a while. “Well, I genuinely believe there is none. My sadness hunts me down every now and then. Yes, I’m a pessimist. But isn’t that a reality?” She gave herself a mental note to stop talking. These were things to be thought, not said. She refrained from saying anything more. Then, she gave him a dashing smile. And with that, he was sure she was not going to say more.

He debated with himself whether he want to say something about what she told him. “From the looks of it, you’re a bird trapped in a cage.” He uttered a sentence and went on again. “You may fly around it, but you can never escape and get to fly in the open air.” She gave him a reassuring nod with much more enthusiasm she wanted to show. He felt better and continued. “You know, I do not have the key for the cage. I never considered sadness the same way you portrayed it. But, the bird got to fly even when caged. Till you get to fly out in the air, do not stop flying around. Otherwise, when the day finally comes to be free you might forget how to fly. And, that is not just worth it.” He stopped suddenly to give her a chance to ponder on the thought a little. Maybe he is feeling a little proud for making her wonder. 

She took what he said to her head, and her heart despite the irreparable damages she had made to both. And, she kept the words till the day she got to fly out in the air. 

0

When I Stare into my Own Eyes!

I stared at the mirror wanting to know what everyone would see for the day. I perused into my own eyes. I appreciated the dark shade that encircles them. I saw how my pupil are indifferent to the figure they are looking at. My forehead seems to have developed new contours. My cheeks looked to weigh twice more than the other day. Perhaps, the deepening of my eyes into the bones marked their prominence. I wanted to check my practiced smiles. My trials were ineffective. I sighed the breath I held for a while. I did not feel relieved a bit. I touched my hair for the last time. I gave myself a reassuring nod to function for one more day. Since I looked at myself well, I will not worry wondering what they might be watching for the day. I departed from my reflection to grab my bag from the table.

The morning sun strikes my face the moment I got out of my home. I wished the warmth to melt the heaviness of my face. I walked down the road in my usual pace despite the disappointment I felt. I consoled myself for it will be the first of the many for the day. My morning thoughts went on to wonder. Suddenly, I came to realize that I am just reflecting the light like a bottle. A bottle of venom waiting to spill itself any moment. The sun can only warmth my venom to freshen the simmering fluid once again. It can never break the barrier into pieces. Though the realization was not liberating, I was amazed by the accuracy of the analogy. After today, the moment I start talking, I will be reminded of the little venom sprays I’m spreading. For some reason, that made me grin. It would be the first of many involuntary grins I have to endure, I hoped as well as resented.

I usually rise early. But, my mind awakens late. I always suffer the trauma of waking up the instant my eyes are open. My body will operate accordingly to the time I have. But my brain, oh my brain! It suffers deeply for all the things I will make it endure. It takes a while for my mind and body to operate together. Even after the union, my brain usually wanders a lot. But it needs the miracle of the coffee spill to attach them for once!

I envy the days I loved the sunrise. I reminisce the days I thought dawn was the symbol of hope for everyone out there. I long for the days my brain and body interlaced to one another. Because now, when I stare into my eyes, I don’t see the deep brown pupils lodged in the white surface along with the red stripes. I see the hate, remorse, and resentment of this thing called life. I see how much I do not understand the abstracts. Life, love, wisdom, beauty, loss, death, justice, etc. All the things I can barely touch, but seek definitions of. The simplest definitions I used to provide have left me bereft. In the candid moments, when I stop making myself bear the pain of existence, I giggle in my definitions. I pity myself for the simplest thinking. I do not wish to award the complexity of my thoughts, though. I no longer believe in encouraging any behavior. I just continue to exist, until I do not!

When I stare into my own eyes, despite what lays there, I wish to see the simple lies I used to tell myself. Or the tale all the people tell without knowing. I wish to open my eyes to the societal lies we all succumb to. Dear reader, I wished to finish this paragraph without being a realist or cynic. I kid you not I tried. But the mere beauty of my existence is the fact I do not yield to the conventions. That is the very reason that gives me joy in some of my days. So, when I stare into my eyes, I would like to see the crooked world I have to see for the day. I would live to see reality knocking on the doors of many. I wish to see my insomniac eyes trying to go through the brightness of the morning in complete disgust. Nothing more, and nothing less!

2

Decipher my Thoughts!

She walked out of her office thinking of her next few hours. Lately, her working hours are much more peaceful than the rest of her evening. She kept wondering what went wrong in the process. But she can’t pinpoint what it is exactly. Her thoughts have become a series of codes, she cannot even begin to understand them. Whenever she comes close to it, there he was, waiting for her with a smile, ready to disrupt her thoughts once again. The moment she is in the presence of someone she forgets her very own existence like a moth drawn to light only for utter destruction. The major work her mind focuses on would be imprinting a smile on her face and to nod along whatever is there on the conversation table. Or managing ideas that are actually out of this world, never near to reality nor the present life. But that is getting harder when her mind is filled with codes that should be deciphered into actual words.

In the last fortnight or so, she has been lost more than ever. Her insecurities and doubts have grown wild. It is not like she is a stranger for these things. They have been her special guests for a long. It might even be inappropriate to consider them as guests due to their prolonged stay. But now they have multiplied and grown, it is hard to control or not to be overwhelmed by them. Before she even get through this thought, the taxi reached her destination. She feels like walking in her sleep dragging her foot and yet she wasn’t even close to sleeping.

Out of nowhere, she remembered something she heard or read. “The brighter the lady shines, the faster she may burn!” The thought made her wince with a confused smile close to a burst of tears. She once was shining bright, maybe a little brighter than she had to. There again, she reached her destination. But she wasn’t quite ready to let this thought go. She entertained the person she used to be in the dimming light of the day. The quote couldn’t be more true. While she thought she was shining brighter than ever, she was burning to ashes. And she didn’t realize she lost more than half of herself until she was very close to losing her whole self in it.

His warm greeting woke her up from her thoughts once again. It wasn’t a pleasant distraction. He seemed to be energetic more than ever. He got the promotion he was hoping for so long. ‘Tonight, we are celebrating!’ He continued with the enthusiasm she envied. She gave him the best smile she could ever muster. ‘Congrats, you got the promotion?!’ She said, unsure of her wavering voice. ‘Better, I got the head editorial position…’ he went on and on. She didn’t realize her body was long gone until he called out her name again. ‘I’m listening’, she lied.

She has to do it tonight. This madness has to stop. She needs a break before her mind makes it demand and paralyze her body in total. It wasn’t just him. She needed a break from her usual activities. She wasn’t sure she was going to do it. But she has to before ruining the greatest night of his life. ‘How is telling him different from that?’, she wondered. But convinced not telling him would be much worse, she blurted it out. She didn’t even think of her word choices. ‘I can’t do this anymore!’ He was startled. ‘What can you not do?’ She saw a flash of hurt across his face. ‘I need a time, space…whatever, I need it all. I’m so sorry. I just can’t.’ She is not thinking. If she was, she wouldn’t have the gut to say it. The hurt has changed into anger. He is ready to blast any moment now. ‘I do not understand. I will never understand you for that matter.’ He sighs and muttered something she couldn’t quite get. ‘What do you want? Do you even know what you want? Why do you keep shutting the world out? No, no! Why do you keep shutting me out? I have tried to get you. And I did. You are okay, now. Your past days are behind you. Why do you indulge in them again and again?’

He pushed some button she never knew she had. Her face was downright flushed. ‘I am okay?! How do you even know that? What do you know about being okay? You know what, I’m not even going to say more. I don’t need space or time. This is what I need. I don’t wish to see you ever again. Do not say anything!’ She took a deep sigh for she said it all in one breath. She picked her bag up along with herself and said, ‘you think you are so smart. So full of knowledge, about me, my emotions. Here is something for your thought then. If you think you’re so smart, decipher all the notes I left looking out for help! You were ‘the only smart one’ to figure that out. And yet, here we are! Goodbye!’ She runs out of there. Despite the rising anger on her chest, she felt a hint of sadness inside.

As she got to her house, she scribed the words- ‘deciphering my thoughts.’ That would be the only thing she would do in the next few hours, weeks, even years!

0

If I were a Melody…

“I used to be someone else. Someone who was comfortable with talking. Someone who played with the strings of beautiful words. Someone who did this and that. But then I sank into the dark abyss of my soul, I forgot the existence of the world around me. My eyes are now nearsighted for the universe of my own. I barely talk. Words have forsaken me. I can’t utter a single thing well. That could explain why I like my own company more than anything. I wish to utter words on my paper to see the flow of my thoughts well. I want my words to paint the roadmap of my train of thoughts. But, o my words! They left me behind in the constant perplexed illusion of myself. I can’t even recognize which is reality or ideation. I’m just left to wander in this unknown, untouched part of myself without a hint of light. Even when I’m awake, it feels like I’m sleep walking through my life. This is why I do not want to talk. The war I have inside of me doesn’t put me at liberty to say things. I’m in fact afraid of what I might say if I open my mouth. I do not wish to say the things like you ache me, your presence suffocate me or your words wound me. I just want…I just want an absolute silence.” She sighed. Almost in a relief of the heavy words she uttered. It felt like the words were burying her down. And now she is liberated. But then, what now?

She ran to her room as if she were running away from the previous few minutes. She stood behind the door,trying to collect her thoughts. Her breathing has fastened. She felt her pulse racing. “Why did I open my mouth? Why? Why?” She stared at the wall waiting for a response. She started pacing around the room. Counted her steps. Right, left. Left, right. “Oh my God!” She sighed with a shiver. She then scurried to her bed and hid under the blanket. In the absolute darkness where she can only hear herself without distraction. She felt relief for no one followed her after the speech she had given. She wanted to think of the reason why. But forced all the thoughts back and convinced herself just to lie down in the darkness.

“If I were a melody,” her mind started wondering. This was already the next day and she started scribbling on her notebook. “If I were a melody, I would’ve spent my whole life in a beautiful box. I would sing out the beautiful notes when needed. But for the rest of the time, I will be locked out in my box.” She went on. “I have always thought, when you play a pianoforte, you’re feeling the depth of your heart at the tip of your fingers. Even though your fingers are only doing the magic, your heart is pounding and pouring itself out. Your soul is dancing it’s way through. Only your body is stuck in some fixed position allowing your fingers to move along. In elegance, yet in passion.” She paused for a minute. Then continued again. “But as someone who never played it, but watched many skilled ones perform it with love and passion, I must think that’s how they feel about it. In fact it’s usually said virtuoso musicians lose themselves in the music and zone out from the reality. They become buried inside the box as if they were the melody and the rhythm itself. As the string move, you hear the beat of their soul. That seems to be easy to run away from reality. You just hid in the box.” “Here is my dream job”, she whispered to herself.

She then realized she had been away from the grave reality of her life for few hours. She closed her eyes. She didn’t get out of her room after the last incident. Would she ever be able to stand in front of them? As she starts thinking about her next encounter with her relatives and parents, her throat starts closing up. “I may not be able to say a word after this.” Once the box is open, her mind couldn’t stop wondering about it. “I bet they think it is an iniquity. That it was a disgrace to speak what you have in mind. Is it how it works though? I was a melody in the box. Well, the music that outflowed wasn’t in their liking. And yet, it was still a melody.” As her rambling and her real life becomes at peace, she realized how much little she had spoken. She didn’t say it all. She still has a lot in mind. She felt all the indignation she had kept to herself just for the sake of not saying anything. For the best picture people had of her. But in retrospect, it doesn’t actually feel it worked at all. It was all a ruse at her cost. She doesn’t even remember why she stopped saying anything in the first place. As much as it sounds good to hide in the box and give away such a composition, a melody, it just doesn’t feel right anymore. But this doesn’t mean she is going to use all the words after this. Sometimes, saying nothing says the most anyway. That is also using your voice in sorts. “I am a melody. I live in my own box. My music is sometimes bad. But also good at times. It’s all about a good composition anyway. Who then could tell the bad from the good?” She shouted this in her mind. Then she opened her door and faced the world. Well, at least the people in the next room!

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The Perks of Rumination

She was ruminating. Lost in her own universe. It was like she was asleep right in front of him while her eyes were wide open. It was the first time he realized that waking someone from sleep was much easier. He knows her. At least, better than many people in her life. She knows that too. What he doesn’t know is that knowing her better than the world is not enough. Because she is made of multiple layers. And he only knew the first few. Beneath the layers and layers, there lies a person. A whole, new, different person. The world doesn’t know that.

In propriety, she may let in some people into her life. She might atleast open the gate for them. But in reality, the gate that is opened is right next to another gate.

Here’s something about life. In life, almost everyone is afraid of death. All the people she met were really afraid of death. Even when they say they are not, she knew exactly that they really are. That’s when she realized there is a huge difference between her and the world. She wasn’t afraid of death. Not a little bit. She was terrified of life, though. Very much. The only thing she was scared of was tomorrow. Oh tomorrow! And the day after that. And the next. That was what she was thinking of when he waked her up. “Why am I not scared of death? Just like everyone? Why do I freak out with the thought of tomorrow? Why do I breakdown by the glance of my future?” He called her name again when she was trying to remember what she was thinking about when she was deep in thought. Life!

She saw him in tearful eyes with a hint of smile. She was trying to make sure her smile was much bigger and stronger than her tears. Tears give you away. But laughter builds you a firewall. He stood frozen not knowing what to ask or what to say next. So he said, “let’s go some place else or walk?” She nodded since she wasn’t sure of her voice. And she followed him.

And so they went out of the park. A larger crowd faced them. He then decided to head towards their usual spot. She’s barely moving her feet trying to follow wherever he would take her. She feels like she was in a dream and now awaken to reality. Heavy eyes, weakened limbs. Was she asleep or deep in thought? He is heading somewhere. She is following him. She is trying to paint the smile on her face. He is quiet. She wondered what he might be thinking about. For a brief second she thought, “did he see through me?” But then she answered to herself “no, that’s not possible.” He turn around to see if she’s coming. She gave him a nod along with a bigger smile. She’s relieved her smile is winning.

He wanted to say something. He really thought he should. He just couldn’t utter a word. He wanted to talk about anything. But then, his mind left him bereft. So he is wandering just like the rest of the people on the road. He hoped to get to there faster. At least sitting would help. Or having a sip of a drink.

He went back to the moment where she froze. He was talking about life, hope and all. He knew she is sensitive about these things. But he wasn’t sure why or he never understood the level of despair she was in. He didn’t think it would turn out in her teleporting to the other universe and him being left speechless. He felt like he smashed down a huge jenga puzzle to the extent he doesn’t even know how to rebuild it again. For now, the only quick fix he is thinking, sitting down and having a glass of water would clear his mind. Or magically put some words on his tongue. Fingers crossed.

“So”,he said after he took a sip from his water. His idea of quick fix is working. He has few words now. She looked him in the eye with the painted smile on her face and replied, “so…”. “I think our generation is obsessed with post apocalyptic events, don’t you think?” He waited for her to say something agreeable raising his brows while he’s taking another sip. She knew he’s trying to get her back to this universe and make her interested in imaginations, philosophy or ideologies. Despite her usual interest in these things, she wanted to stay in her ideal universe for a while. In the middle of the debate she’s having with herself, she was taking longer than a while to give him a response. She excused herself to go to the rest room.

As she stood infront of the mirror, she kept telling herself that she can do this. This is just another day. Like the other days. She reminded herself that she can’t start ruminating about her life now. That’s always done when she’s alone. Life is not all about doing what you love. It’s about not showing the hate for the things you don’t want to do. She recited that again and again while feeling the cold water along her face. And when she step out, she had a bigger smile on her face. Ready for the day! For the moment! She decided to be here, not out there.

After she took a sip of her coffee, she went on and on about what he started as a quick fix. They laughed. They talked a lot about other things. But she wasn’t reminiscing about life anymore. He didn’t bring it up either. He was happy she’s smiling and talking her heart out. As the time closes to dusk, they walked home. And both thought quietly, “not that bad, after all.”

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