sesquipedalien

Did I really read this article?

Looking around, I am surrounded by human lives. There, right across from me, sits an elderly man, a patch across one eye, his cane resting gently by his side. He looks down as he types, occasionally looking up to check the screen, his gnarled fingers slowly pressing the little squares of letters. There, to my right, sit a young African American, her hair slicked back in a pony, her book bag sagging in solemn exhaustion. On her lap sits a boy. Golden skinned, big brown eyes, deep in tears. She silently comforts him, her eyes frantically keeping up with the hands of the clock. There, to my left, a couple entwined in each others arms. They are staring at the picture glowing back at them. She scrolls down and I glimpse a town house. Red roofed, narrow, tiny. I watch them a while longer, my guess coming true. She skipped it. Why crane to look behind? I know who sits. There, his nervous fingers tapping the table, his irises pools of worry, his hat, part of his uniform, set beside the mouse. He would be pulling his hair now and then. The classes were filled. A long time ago.

I cannot imagine what I read. Where is the human life in it all?

No, rather, where is the life in the human? I cannot justify human. Human is what a human is. Life, however, is a reason. Life baffles me. Life in humans baffle me. To think that it exists in such measures!

Sweet sweet 16! *Shudder*

I wonder, should I laugh, or cry?

I do nothing.

As usual.

There are chalkboards in every room I have to sit and pass time within. The English rooms are usually graced with two hunter green ones up front and one on the side wall, lingering with no real purpose to serve except for idle minds to doodle little hearts or stars, or names of the people they love. I once came across a magnificent work of art covering the whole board… some reproduction of Nintendo Mario playground. But mostly, the face is blank. Silent.

I have a habit of coming to class way before the crowd. There is something about an empty classroom that demands my pleasure. The murky, secret silence with chalk dust floating, chairs thrown away from or pushed into the minimal space desks, the closing door snapping shut the world. It remains to be just you and the ghosts of thoughts, left there in the hurry and chaotic boredom of the previous class. Those few moments of loneliness, if you can call it that, are the jewels of each lecture I attend. Like a piece of chocolate given to a child before a sermon just to assure proper behavior…

In my 360 degree inspection of the room, I am always drawn the most to the scar less face. It wanted to be marred. To be the bearer of something other than itself. Those first few weeks, I ignored the pitiful pleas. I had nothing to say to it, nor to the world that would see what I had. I stared at it everyday, wishing to fill it with something worthy. A quote maybe? A mathematical formula? A simple drawing of a boat on the sea? I shook my head to myself many times. It was too ordinary. Too human like.

I have a pride. A rather selfish one. I wanted to shock them. I wanted to make them think. None of these qualified.

Until one weekend, when I created, out of pure boredom (well, not ~boredom~ but lack of thoughts in mind), a cryptic language of my own. It was simple enough. No math required. Just a play of shapes and letters, letters and shapes. The alphabet stared back at me with glee.

I wrote, that Monday, a quote famous enough to receive scornful looks by those who would solve the code under which it was hidden. Feeling the chalk in my fingers, gently pressing against the beautifully pure board, neatly producing a straight line of alien figures erupted such sensations of satisfaction. It was ~my~ work. ~My~ language. ~My~ intelligence. I finished, admired, wiped the dust from my fingers on the side of my pants, and sat with an open book. I looked innocent enough.

That is another thing of my pride. I strive to remain unknown.

Those first few that walked in gave me a light smile, which I glowed back, then watched their faces as they peered at the board behind me. I loved the reactions. Some ignored. Some raised eyebrows. Some frowned slightly in thought. Some stared in indifference. Only two asked, ‘what’s that?’, to which I shrugged. Class started. And it ended. Nothing happened. I left a tad bit disappointed.

Next day, there were smudged yellow marks around my words. Ah. So someone had tried. I smiled. Again, the lecture started and ended. Again, some faces looked up to ponder if they got bored. Again, no answers.

It went on like this for a week. I was having a hard time not to go up and erase it. In fact, I was surprised that it had remained up there so long. Usually, they wiped them clean.

That next Monday, I stepped in and there were people in there from the previous class, professor included. I looked to see what they were doing. They were staring at my words. I slipped in, and watched. A Chinese guy held a yellow piece of chalk, thoughtfully glancing at the almost deciphered quote. ‘It’s a q,’ I found myself urging him silently, ‘a q.’ As if he had heard it, his nimble fingers traced an eloquent q over mine. Suddenly the girl squealed “To be or not to be, that is the question!” As she spoke, the other filled in the missing spaces.

It was done.

The professor had been watching and packing papers into his file. He stopped to look carefully as the other two high fived and shook chalk dust off their fingers. “I wonder who wrote that.” he said, mildly impressed. “The code is rather simple, now that you look at it. All the person did was switch around the lines to simplify the shape of the letter it represented.” I nodded slightly to myself.

The girl noticed me. I knew her. She had been in my English class last semester. “Hey! You know who put it up?” I shrugged, but my smile must have given something away. As she passed me she whispered “You brat…”

I laughed. Brat indeed.

I’d peel the skin off of grapes, chew it in between my teeth, the inside of my cheeks turning in. I was left admiring the little oval of deliciousness. I’d anticipate. I’d pop it in my mouth. The solitary joy in tasting a skinless green grape!

I’d count the numbers of M&M’s in a minature. 11. I’d sort the colors. I’d take the brown ones, then the orange, then the reds. I gave five to my sister, and five for me. The extra one Mom would eat. I’d save them. they could last an hour. I’d let it rest in my mouth. Sugar. Milk chocolate. Peanut. I’d smile. The taste of timelessness!

I’d stand in front of the oven when cheese was melting. The fascination of seeing a lot becoming a whole. I’d wait, my nose a millimeter away from the screen looking in. Mom would yell if I left a mark on her cleanliness. And when it was done, I’d want to yell “Oh look Mom! Look how it became a smooth sea!” I’d smile. The incredible magic of tasting heat!

I’d stir my bowl of ice cream with my spoon. Whip whip whip. It’d become a cloud. A cloud so soft that if I lifted a piece of it in the air, the space would be refilled with more cloudiness. And it’d vaporize the instant I licked it off. I’d smile. Softness had such a soothing taste!

I’d cut thin thin tomato slices. I’d squeeze out the excess water from the fresh mozzarela, then it too was sliced in perfect co-ordinance. I’d take the porcelain ducks to shake on pepper and salt. And the olive oil, draped in a thin layer over it all. A fresh leaf of basil to add a finishing touch. I’d smile. The simple taste of such an elegant dish!

Food. Was pleasing. So satisfactory. Lovingly longed for.

Why does everything taste like

Dust now?

The human need to express the existence of “I” has manipulated itself in many ways throughout history.

To join the list are, interestingly, tags.

Wear your “self” above your heart, hanging off your neck. How… quaint. *Cough*

Go and look before finding I. Go and learn I.

“I” doesn’t need a dog tag.

“I” needs “I.”

But then, a dog is a dog.

What does it know of an I?

It’s one thing when you hide.

It’s quite another when you go silent.

Failure. Failure.

So sated.

Like a lemon. It’s not the sourness that pouts your face. It’s your mind. Your minds response. Like a lemon. But there is no sourness.

Like wet dirt. How it fills every molecule of your essence. Pungent. The slickness whispers through your fingers without touching it. Like wet dirt. But there is no touch.

Like fear. The heart millions of miles per moment. So. Thick. The love of it catching your breath. Like fear. But there is no racing.

Like sunshine. Capturing each corner of dark. Shadows are not dark. They are light. For shadows don’t exist without light. Like sunshine. But there is no shadow.

So sated.

Failure. Failure.

It’s one thing when you hide.

It’s quite another when you go silent.

Smile. Please smile.

For the pictures sake.