Whispered into the Darkness
She turned the pen over, a distracted rhythm playing in her head, to which she twisted it in circles.
Restless.
There was no other way to describe how she felt. She felt restless.
Like there was too much energy trapped beneath her skin. Like there were little butterflies playing sport in her stomach. She was restless.
The night, meanwhile, was serene.
Warm socks covered her feet, keeping them warm from the cold winter night. There was a faint hum of the TV going on in the living room, white noise against the backdrop of the quiet night.
Except, it wasn't quiet.
Street dogs barked ever so often, engaged in a secret symphony only their brethren were invited to. The watchman paroled the grounds, talking loudly to his wife on his phone, narrating big and small incidents in great detail. A noisy insect loudly declared its intention to mate, inviting others to join in.
Everything was alive around her, the very night singing a song of sorts.
A song of love.
She unfolded her legs. Refolded them. Tapped the pen against the notepad, waiting for the words to come.
They usually came very easily. The words were her friends, they always had been. She need only summon them with a crook of her fingers and running they would come. Greet her like old friends that had never lost touch.
Except today, they seemed elusive.
Today, when she most needed their help in expressing the despair that had her trapped in its clutches. She needed the escape of words, the escape of writing. She needed her ability to transform her pain into stories, today of all days, she needed the purge.
But it seemed out of grasp.
Restless, she was restless.
She paced, up and down, up and down. Back and forth.
The step counter on her wrist picked up the numbers. At least she was getting some exercise out of the ordeal, she though in wry amusement.
"Are you still awake?" her phone beeped.
She looked at the time stamp. 2.30 am in the morning.
The sweet, new boy she had been talking to, was worried about her. She had told him of her habit of staying up late at night, wondering about the origins of the universe and the fate of the world.
She didn't have the heart to tell him that his sweetness made her feel claustrophobic.
So she ignored the message.
She went back to her desk. She had to complete the story. It would haunt her every waking moment otherwise.
Would she give them a happy ending?
She pondered the question. She examined it from every angle.
They deserved a happy ending, they'd made it through so many obstacles. Him on his own, she on her own. Them together!
She'd thrown everything she knew at them and yet, somehow, they had maneuvered their way around it to the verge of a happy ending.
But did she want to acknowledge the happy ending?
Restless, she felt so restless!
Was a happy ending a possibility? For everyone?
She smiled bitterly. That was the questions, wasn't it? Was it a realistic ending? Was it an ending that felt authentic?
"He painted the last leaf. Climbed the tallest branch. Attached his masterpiece. Then he surrendered to the police.
She saw the leaf, the lifelike masterpiece, on a piece of paper, flying helplessly in the wind, attached to the branch by a precarious piece of tape. And she smiled."
She tapped her pen against the page.
Did they deserve that?
She didn't know. But that's how she wrote it.
3.40 am.
Sweet boy messages again, "Can you just tell me if you're alright?"
She read the message twice, smiled. Maybe she'd allow herself a different end?
"Can you call me?" she typed back.
The phone rang.
She answered it.
Restless.
There was no other way to describe how she felt. She felt restless.
Like there was too much energy trapped beneath her skin. Like there were little butterflies playing sport in her stomach. She was restless.
The night, meanwhile, was serene.
Warm socks covered her feet, keeping them warm from the cold winter night. There was a faint hum of the TV going on in the living room, white noise against the backdrop of the quiet night.
Except, it wasn't quiet.
Street dogs barked ever so often, engaged in a secret symphony only their brethren were invited to. The watchman paroled the grounds, talking loudly to his wife on his phone, narrating big and small incidents in great detail. A noisy insect loudly declared its intention to mate, inviting others to join in.
Everything was alive around her, the very night singing a song of sorts.
A song of love.
She unfolded her legs. Refolded them. Tapped the pen against the notepad, waiting for the words to come.
They usually came very easily. The words were her friends, they always had been. She need only summon them with a crook of her fingers and running they would come. Greet her like old friends that had never lost touch.
Except today, they seemed elusive.
Today, when she most needed their help in expressing the despair that had her trapped in its clutches. She needed the escape of words, the escape of writing. She needed her ability to transform her pain into stories, today of all days, she needed the purge.
But it seemed out of grasp.
Restless, she was restless.
She paced, up and down, up and down. Back and forth.
The step counter on her wrist picked up the numbers. At least she was getting some exercise out of the ordeal, she though in wry amusement.
"Are you still awake?" her phone beeped.
She looked at the time stamp. 2.30 am in the morning.
The sweet, new boy she had been talking to, was worried about her. She had told him of her habit of staying up late at night, wondering about the origins of the universe and the fate of the world.
She didn't have the heart to tell him that his sweetness made her feel claustrophobic.
So she ignored the message.
She went back to her desk. She had to complete the story. It would haunt her every waking moment otherwise.
Would she give them a happy ending?
She pondered the question. She examined it from every angle.
They deserved a happy ending, they'd made it through so many obstacles. Him on his own, she on her own. Them together!
She'd thrown everything she knew at them and yet, somehow, they had maneuvered their way around it to the verge of a happy ending.
But did she want to acknowledge the happy ending?
Restless, she felt so restless!
Was a happy ending a possibility? For everyone?
She smiled bitterly. That was the questions, wasn't it? Was it a realistic ending? Was it an ending that felt authentic?
"He painted the last leaf. Climbed the tallest branch. Attached his masterpiece. Then he surrendered to the police.
She saw the leaf, the lifelike masterpiece, on a piece of paper, flying helplessly in the wind, attached to the branch by a precarious piece of tape. And she smiled."
She tapped her pen against the page.
Did they deserve that?
She didn't know. But that's how she wrote it.
3.40 am.
Sweet boy messages again, "Can you just tell me if you're alright?"
She read the message twice, smiled. Maybe she'd allow herself a different end?
"Can you call me?" she typed back.
The phone rang.
She answered it.
One of my favorite movies, one of my favorite songs. Some ramblings of my restless mind.
Comments
Post a Comment