Once upon a time, a girl artisticly sifted through chasms of colored pencils, blending sticks and crumbling white chalk. She sighed, placing her callused hands to the clean paper, hope reverberating off its every pore. Her heart swarmed. Content. She began to sketch that first imperfect line. She regarded it most conspiritorily. How could it look so beautiful in her mind, so vivid, so inviting, so whole and yet appear empty and listless when transferred to canvas?
A boy turned to her suddenly, keenly he asked. How are you?
The girl disliked this genial turn of phrase, this casual careful excuse for compassion. For emotion. Who among her peers would willingly submit themselves to her? For her full feelings could not be expressed in two syllables, in the two empty words; I'm fine. No one's life deserves to become a synopsis. She mused on what would happen if she dared utter a unique reply, a witty remark, a passionate declaration. Would his face blanche and become scarlett all in the same fluid motion? Would he offer his own saga to complement hers? Would he look around shyly pretending not to have heard her; inclining his head ever so politely would he ask, Excuse me, what were you saying? Would he feign indifference?
He interrogated again; how's your love life?
The girl smiled despite herself. A secret smile, whose meaning was an eternal enigma. Love life? Ha. She automized a reply: It's amazing.
Once upon a time, a boy read between the lines. He studied her features. Impassive her eyes shone, resilience evidenced in the forcibly upturned corners of her mouth, tears floated almost inperceptively behind her azure irises. Her face held the wisdom that only knowledge of pain can bring about, silently she pleaded, believe me.
The girl avoided his penetrating gaze. He looked at her and whispered, you mean non- existent, right? It's okay: me too.
No comments:
Post a Comment