one sees clearly only with the heart
what is essential is invisible to the eye
Longer profile & list of links.
Selfish (draft 1?)
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Everyone owns monsters. Some a couple, some troops. Some benign, some murderous. Just because you have opinions and a mouth, don’t act as if you’ve seen others’ monsters, or lived with them for years. Many people would decide to lock them up, since most monsters can be kept under control, rather tame. Some would let them out on purpose to seek attention, I can’t stand them. Others, under pressure, would let them out and seek genuine help. Certain would buckle under the pressure of holding on for too long, without any signs. And they will slip from your grasp, their smiles masking the broken pieces.How many do you have? Are they benign, annoying or murderous? When I meet people, I would try to read their souls and picture the monsters behind them. It’s easy to see a person’s soul just by the way he walks, his expressions. But needs extreme observation, the slight crease under his eyes, the very faint hollowness in his eyes. Once you know the art, a piece of cake. It’s like a hobby for me.
It was one of the odd hobbies I engaged in. I recorded soul readings and quotes. Almost every space on my apartment walls is filled with quotes from all over the world. Different colours, different eras, different meanings. She was so astonished when she entered my apartment. It was after school, and she wanted to go through my notes (I keep them in an ivory chest in my room). That day was the first I really spoke to her. Her eyes shone as she spoke, her eager tone dissolving all other sounds and her delicate hands conjured life and tales. As she spoke, I read her soul, and all I could see was a pink ball of fluff beside her with large purple eyes that seemed to take a lot of effort to blink. It bounced every time her voice shot with excitement. Her strawberry scent lingered for a week.
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Me? Of course I have my monsters. Most came to fill the emptiness that fate has created. But the strawberry scent frightened them. It was impossible to miss her in school, just watch out for the girl with the huge patterned electric blue headphones. Or like me, follow the trail of strawberry lotion. It was very seldom that I asked questions I could not answer. And this was one: How could she be so happy? She gave life to the school, she spread life in the school, and she was the life of the school. Not to mention, she was the best drinker. I added the question to my list, just below “Is there God?”
I shared my notes and books with her; she shared her booze and happiness with me.
I gave her words, she gave me colours.
Her apartment had fairy lights lining the edges of the ceilings, a lava lamp at every table and glow-in-the-dark peppering the walls and ceiling. Night time was magical. Beyond words. I spent a night there, after we were caught smoking in school and were chased out of campus (our identities never found). Her apartment glowed and shimmered as we laughed and rolled on the floor, knocking over empty beer bottles.
That was just one of the many more-than-average moments. She was a part of every one.
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The last one she was a part of was one night, when I came home after night-Church and found a strawberry scented letter at my doorstep. In my exhaustion I still retained sanity to comprehend the it. I had not run so much before. I ran and ran, through the biting wind and light snow (past midnight mind you). Dashing across streets, without heed of law. Not surprisingly, I almost got knocked over by a car, a police car at that. My hands attacked aimlessly, before being subdued and promptly sent back home (for free!). Shivering, soaked and spent, I slumped into a dreamless slumber. 13 days from then, I took a dazed train trip to a funeral, a sullen simple one, hers.
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She had been heavily drunk. Her wrists covered in cuts and burns. Floor littered with beer cans and razors. Her body on the ground floor.
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Honestly, that was more selfish than her taking my books without my permission or adding quotes (with her huge writing) to my walls. I had screamed at her then. I had forgotten her birthday once. She screamed at me. Soaked my shoulders with her tears. Ate my Mars bars. Rearranged my CDs according to colour. She left so many traces in my life, physically, mentally and emotionally. And she was gone like that. Suddenly. Poof. Selfish, utterly selfish.
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Her pink fluffy monster was a mistake. That little bastard could shapeshift and I could not tell. How was I to know, when no one was around, it would morph into a large blood red one, with glimmering obsidian eyes and poison laced claws? How would I know her parents died in a fire and left her, the only child, in an abusive orphanage? How would I know behind those smiles and strawberry skin? How would I had known before that letter?
I should have suspected something. I should have found out. I was selfish.
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But she would forgive me. Forgive me for not looking deeper into her soul, for not seeing her past in her eyes. For being blinded by her electric blue headphones and rollercoaster ramblings. For not analysing her tears and sighs. For being so selfish. Just as I would forgive her for hiding, not seeking help. For breaking apart silently and letting her past eat her alive. For being so selfish.
I once read a book;
"But ultimately I do not believe that she was only matter. The rest of her must be recycled, too. I believe now that we are greater than the sum of our parts. If you take Alaska's genetic code and you add her life experiences and the relationships she had with people, and then you take the size and shape of her body, you do not get her. There is something else entirely. There is a part of her greater than the sum of her knowable parts. And that part has to go somewhere, because it cannot be destroyed"
Her memories, her scent and her tears will linger on this Earth and I will try to collect them, and I will abandon my quotes and my soul-reading to collect every bit of her left. And when I die, then I will let the world have the remnants of her.
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In a way, we are very much the same.
We are both so selfish.
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End
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I'll edit and rewrite if I feel that I should in a couple days time. Inspired by Looking For Alaska (John Green). It's not a good writing, too much shitting not enough showing. We'll see. I need to revive my writing skills that deteoriated since I went hibernation mode after some stuff.
I guess I need to let out my emotions somehow.
But its a weird and complicated feeling. A dull, persistant one.
Perhaps this calls for more writing. Or sleeping or eating.