Sometimes even the stories don’t redeem. Leave you with memories of all that you wanted to forget…and lines that echo – with a meaning of their own…
“I too can wait – for the day when she is only a memory to be avoided, locked away, and like all memories a legend. Or a lie…”
“If I was bound for hell let it be hell. No more false heavens. No more damned magic. You hate me and I hate you. We’ll see who hates best. But first, first I will destroy your hatred. Now. My hate is colder, stronger, and you’ll have no hate to warm yourself. You will have nothing.”
“As for my confused impressions they will never be written. There are blanks in my mind that cannot be filled up.”
Perhaps it is always the same story. Who knows…who is to say, what truths you bare, what lies you hide. I know of you what you tell me. But I know you not. All of the fears come back to haunt you.
The lines on my palm – hold the secret, I’m told. No matter how intently I look, I fail to decipher. I find myself believing that the secret keeps changing. Perhaps it passes on – with every handshake.
I think I will turn off the dazzle of the lights – and find what I am looking for in the darkness of the night…bereft of the stars. The full moon would perhaps be too bright…so I will allow the clouds. Sometimes, they become rebellious. All of them. The lights shine brighter than usual – hurt my eyes. Even when they are closed. The stars and clouds collude. And conspire. Not the moon. I know. I have a friend in him. It could be a figment of my imagination – who is to say – there is much I say to delude myself. We are never so completely fooled, they say, as when we fool ourselves.
I am not sure where the scratches on my body came from. The scars have held on to their memory though. They may fade with time, like the faded colors of the gold fish in the aquarium. I wonder if she recognizes herself anymore, patches of the resplendence could have served to remind of a colorful past, if they weren’t ugly. Is she sick, someone asked? No she’s not, I want to tell them. They knew her only in her glory, but the ignominy is her own. She swims, together with the others. All day. Perhaps they understand her. Or perhaps she has let all expectation fade away too.
Much else falls into the theme. The chipped edges of the walls. The seepage on the ceiling. The pile of un-opened newspapers.
Much else defies the theme. The fresh paint on the feature wall – textured. And deliberately red. The pictures, mostly of the past, but too alive to stay there. The painting of a rose – framed, gifted, cherished. The song playing on the laptop.
There will always be much. On either side. Sitting on the fence, I am yet to decide which way I go.
