sesquipedalien

Having time is precious. Having time to read is even more so. Using this precious having to read time to breeze through blogs and finding a post that promotes thought is a almost rare…

Tenebris’ post left me wondering why why why…

Is it a lie to say that most human lives are in pursuit of “who we are, what we are, why we are?” Is it a lie to say then too, that most of us will lie on our death beds still asking these same questions? Are we all pursuing a ~specter~ of Truth?

And, of all things in the world, blogging could be the road to this ghost? I suppose ghosts can lead to other ghosts… but to ~the~ ghost? (Provided that there ~is~ one) Eh.

As for “Not many major female out there…” No. Not many. But plenty quiet ones, if you look hard enough.

Stamps. I need stamps.

You sit for an hour, writing up a letter, mixing CD’s, or whatever. You dig for the address, then write it neatly on the package, seal it, only find that you have no authority to send it away.

Or you start to bake bread and lack enough yeast.

Or you start to write a poem and can’t find the word.

Or you start to stack dominoes in a spiral labyrinth and one little crack on the floor unsteadies the whole thing.

Or you start to smile and see something on the face and frown instead.

Little things. Small things.

The strands of rope.

A rope too long to see the other side.

Until I find a stamp.

It is after reading articles like this that makes me feel guilty. Here I live, with my life pretty much laid out for me, with not bruise of hardship. Why then, do I complain?

Sometimes, I think back on all those emails and letters to trusted friends and wish I had never sent them. Every life has its own problems, yes, I understand. Yet that doesn’t give the individual a ~right~ to complain. Plus, many of us ~know~ that what we spend our time ranting about is not really ~helpful~. We’re basically feeding on our ego, all over again. I’m not saying ~never~ to rant. No. A human being is a human being. We ~need~ to vent sometimes. It ~is~ good for the soul. But most of are superfluous about it.

In fact, those who ~don’t~ complain are hiding so much underneath them… They ~don’t~ want to show their life. They live in their miseries oft silently.

Then there are people like me, who, with a life many would wish for, can’t seem to see ~anything~ but the depravities.

And then complain about the guilt they feel.

Sigh.

I was alone in my blue carpeted room. The closet door was ajar, its neatly arranged contents staring back. The white polka dot one appealed. As it slid off the hanger, a tiny knock, as if too shy to be heard, interrupted the silence.

“Yeah?”

The door crept open, a little hand gently shoving against the rounded brass knob. He slipped in, faced the door to shut it again then slowly twirled to face me. His eyes were wet. Not dripping. Just wet.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“I don’t have anything to give you.” The small voice butter, melting smoothly on a warm pancake.

“Give me?”

“I want to give you something, but it’s not that great.”

I looked down at the child. Nine years my junior and still we could laugh together. I knew his little ways, his little joys, his little hates. I smiled at his left hand, stranded there, behind his back. I knew what it held.

He had asked mother to thread a needle. He had held the needle in the light, screwing his face to see the tiny opening. His mouth hung slightly open, a little o formed by his red lips. Red from the glass of fruit punch. He had dipped the white thread in the water, letting it float on the surface until he was satisfied. Again and again, the thread had missed, his fingers, a bow too loose. He had watched mother with his eyes wide. She had strung it for him in one swift go. He hadn’t noticed me watching.

He never sealed his door. A silver of light always gleamed through. Inside, he had sat on the floor, patiently rummaging through thousands of tiny beads. Red, blue, red, blue, red, blue. The needle had picked them up swiftly. He was bent over the tray, his feet folded underneath him so that his knees grazed his chin. Red, blue, red, red… oh! He had sat up, held the needle and thread in the air. Slowly he had removed the faulty one. I had passed his world thrice. Once for every hour. He hadn’t noticed.

I had followed his footstep downstairs. From the top of them, I had heard his voice.

“Tie it. Tie it tight!”

Then had come the knock at my door.

“Oh, really?”

“But I still want to give it to you.”

“I’m all ready.”

He gingerly wiped at his eyes. Damp, not raining.

“It’s not so great as everyone else’s.”

“No?”

He shook his head solemnly, his nose waving in the air.

“Close your eyes.”

“Ok.”

He grabbed my watch hand.

“Don’t peek!”

“I won’t.”

I felt his little fingers against my long ones. A cold ring slid smoothly into place, hanging slightly on my wrist.

“Ok.”

There it was. Red and blue.

“Your school colors.” The quiet voice, like syrup of a maple tree. “Will you wear it today?”

“You bet!”

Later we stood together, me in my blue gown and square shaped hat. He smiled into the camera. I smiled down at him. He was holding my watch hand.

Two years past, and he still checks for it. It’s always there. Then I asked him one day,

“If it broke?”

He shrugged. “I’d make you another one.”

“And if I took it off?”

“You won’t.”

No. I won’t.

“You clap your hands twice,” I whispered. I don’t know how scary I sounded, but the look on their faces gave me great satisfaction. “and then you turn to your left in circles. Eleven times.” My finger twirled in front of their widen eyes.

We were on the school bus. I felt older all of a sudden. The big one, scaring the pants off my sister and her best friend. Both of them sitting on their five year old hands.

“Look then, in the mirror,” I said, deliberately lowering my voice still, “and you’ll see her! Her with her Bloody thick…”

“NO!!” my sister interrupted. She started crying. Her tears sliding down her cheeks, her plump little hand wiping them away as they kept on pouring. Her friend copied. Both of them bawling.

I wanted to laugh. Not in front of them though. I turned around in my seat and giggled, the roar of the bus
sufficiently drowning their crying and my laughing.

Not for long though.

Half an hour later, I was standing in front of my mother and her friends mother, my head sagging. I felt so small. They were towering over me, making me promise never to talk about stuff like spells and mirrors. Before I knew it, I was the one crying. The other two slapped a high five in glee behind my back.

But they wouldn’t look in the mirror for weeks.

I never tell the story or incantation of Bloody Mary anymore. I still can’t fathom what joy I got as a third grader torturing two little first graders.

They cursed me.

My horror stories make people laugh now.

Err… Horror Comedies?

I think not.

“What is ~that~?”

It is 7:00 am. We are sitting in a lab with rows of smooth black table tops and hard twirling chairs that are cold from the night before. It’s a physics discussion class. There are only six of us so far.

“No, seriously,” she reacts to my dry smile, “what is it?”

The floors are white. White squares of tiles neatly laid with precision, attached along almost absent lines. The thing is black. A muddle of black cloth.

“I don’t want to know.”

We are too paranoid to kick it with the tip of our shoes. Despite the fact that it was far from being a living thing.

The prof strolls in and we start. A debate of lens refraction, critical angles, construction of images through multiple layers of glass… The thing lies there forgotten.

One of us must have absently ran over it with our toes. Looking down on it again at 7:55 am, the answer was clear.

“Oh my God.”

“Err…”

We glance at each other and burst out laughing. The others ignore us. Quite normal, seeing that they are still asleep. The prof was already closing the thick book.

“Is it yours?”

“Oh, shut up!”

“hehe.”

“Are we going to leave it there?”

“I guess.”

“Maybe we should throw it away.”

*Laugh*

“No seriously. It’s disgusting.”

“And hilarious.”

She reaches into her bag and pulls out a yellow pencil. It was old.

“You gonna pick it up?”

“And then throw away the pencil too.”

*Laugh*

I watch as she bends down, her fingers as far away from the object as possible… though it was hard cause the pencil was so small. Her face wrinkles in a sort of disgust mixed with a splash of amusement as she held it up against the air, its shape distinct.

I can’t stop laughing.

“Are you sure it’s not yours?”

“Jeez… you think I’d strip here, of all places? Here?”

She holds it over the trash can, letting us both laugh at it for a last moment and then it disappears down the dark covered bin. With the pencil.

Bras: Paragons of Intelligence.

Simply by laying naked on a science floor…