Defessus [writing is release]
When my spurts of breath fog up the window of the airplane and I lean as close as I can to the sky, I think that mankind’s sense of direction is slightly boggled. We fly, and think we’re going up and out, but aren’t we really going up and in, closer to the centre of Reality?
I bounced on that trampoline until I could almost kiss the stars. And maybe I’m more like Icarus than I had previously supposed. That broken spring couldn’t have held up forever… but no one said it would hurt so much to fall. Lying in a hospital bed, I wonder why I half-expected flowers. My mind will go too someday, and there’s no brace that can hold it up to the light long enough for it to heal. What’s beyond the wallpaper of my soul? If I could only get out of myself and walk along that poplar-lined street…. But the door is too small, and there’s no potion to make me shrink like Alice. Anyway, the key’s lost at the bottom of the swimming pool where it slipped from my fingers when we were playing mermaids in the the twilight. I remember we turned all the lights on, and everything was orange and blue and almost perfect. I could float on my back and watch the rumours of the sunset steal across the walls, until my body decided to rebel against Archimedes and descend into the twinkling depths…….
I open my eyes and there’s a butterfly above them– a memento of a life I almost lived. I was interrupted by a curly-haired boy who had a question for me that he never could bring himself to utter. His feet sifted through the grass, but he never could smell the hidden meanings in motion. Sometimes I think about him and wonder if someone ever taught him how to breath deeply enough to feel truly brave… and I regret that I didn’t teach him when I had the chance. I can’t calculate the opportunity cost of rushing away to a swan-speckled river and the row-boat that waited for me on the shore. But such is the path I sprinted along. We were required to wear life-jackets while boating, and I felt like a fat bird unable to fly. I laughed off the feeling of despair, and learned to veil my eyes, because it just didn’t make sense for it to be raining inside my heart while the sun was glistening on the water outside.
Understanding and perception are priceless and dangerous gifts, but even they have their limits. Somehow, only the squirrels outside my window ever looked into my eyes long enough to notice the rust on my trampoline springs, and see that it was always only a matter of time. Maybe I just imagined it, but my bedroom walls seemed to understand my personality better than I did, and they changed color ever-so-subtly to help me adapt. No one else saw behind the mischief in my eyes and my tendency to bounce with excitement. No one saw the shadows… in all shades of grey. No one ever expected me to fall, and when I did, no one ever knew. It might seem impossible, but I was always an actress, you know. So we’ll go on to talk about bed-knobs and broomsticks, of cabbages and kings, and forget this ever happened. Forget that there’s bitterness behind the brilliance or sadness behind the smile… the world is made of truth denied.
But how can I make you understand that my feelings are as real as yours? Who would suspect me, with my bright pink jacket and playful retorts, of writing poetry dripping with tears that come from encounters with faithlessness and betrayal and uncertainty? Surely I should be happy forever. How could it be possible that I could go to bed and cry myself to sleep?
Arbitrary memories whish across the parchment of my mind. Science fair projects with shells and frogs and meat tenderizers remind me of that night I wore a very unattractive plaid shirt, and I wonder what my evaluating judge thought of my sense of style. Stylistically speaking, I’m not sure how to employ the word “arcane” as often as I’d like to do so. Judging by my knack for changing the subject, we could be here all day. Please fasten your seat-belts, and if there is a sudden change in cabin pressure, fasten the oxygen mask to your face and breathe normally. If you should experience hallucinations of 13 Tolkein-esque dwarves, join them so their number is no longer unlucky. We may all be needed in the future, for sacrifice is a service which cannot be bought and a dish which is always served warm. I opened the refrigerator and realized I was looking in the wrong place. What would Sydney Carton do in my situation? Never mind, he’d never find himself here anyway. If he did, I’d be the first to say hello and offer him my gloved hand. But if anyone was to come and ask for my gloved heart, I’d tell him it was still under repair.