Thoughts of my own
For she has no idea that I do know, ay, she has no idea. I became acquainted with such hardly unfathomable character as hers, every curve of it. The pathos, surely I can smell on her and I can tell that it sounded like an autumnal sunset penetrating among the darkest leaved brambles. She seemed like an empty book, her “charivari” succeeded in belying what was lurking deep down. Nothing told of such wealth as that of what she possessed, nothing. Have you ever heard of an unbridled empty mine? That is the very shallow version of her. Find me the finest artist of all times and I will tell you that with no doubt he would be incapable of painting someone alike. My aim is not to glorify what I am writing, nor people themselves, nay, and never will. But my role will consist of delving too deep to reveal a bit of her character, a humble role towards such spineless creature, a mere delving methinks, for I am certain that her character demanded more efforts to be shown to people than my mere ones. Simply, names in here won’t be mentioned, nor a simple, chronicle, lavishly devoid hotch and potch of actions will. I will waver in the same way her thoughts, memories, recollections will. My writing will be soothing when she is, chaotic when she is, broodingly iconoclastic when she is, and peculiarly and sensitively poetic when only she is. If she were a book, she won’t be easy to read and if she were a flower, her essence won’t be easy to fathom. But despite the nonsenses she endures, she will always live, live to be an inspiration in front of the face of harsh despair and the growing crops of disappointment, for how unbearably unbearable to be in her shoes, ay, how unbearably unbearable. It feels bitter but sweet at once: bitter for no one has ever known what she has been enduring, thus, misjudging her, sweet for nature has bestowed upon her the ability to veil her grief whenever needed. I do not know nor matter if such depiction makes sense or not, but when depicting her, I feel as if I were some sort of a hapless orphan who has been inheriting a necklace inside which a weary photo of an unknown lays, or like a lost captain in a desert yearning for a gleam of light so as to find his lost map with an eye to reach his path, but in vain, only the dews of orb that are glinting. This is the introduction I would like to commence the somehow story (for I said it before that it won’t be a hotch and potch of actions) with.
“She is still hapless” whispered her father into her mother’s ears “she is still sick and cannot handle it.” He thought she didn’t hear him. , but she did. She torn a flower between her fingers as she remembered this.It stamped unwillingly into her mind. Old people can do big mistakes, nay; they are the breeders of sins par excellence. This scene would remain vivid into her mind to hurt and haunt. She was too young to understand what was going on around her. The only thing she grasped was that she was not healed yet. She is still weak, with a big head, a thin body and lame feet, for how she won’t grasp it while all that ghostly dim scenario of being left in a hospital all by her own can run into her mind whenever she heard people’s comments. Villain par excellence who looked at her with a mocking air, villain par excellence who made harsh comments about such pathetic cherub, villain par excellence who ever took her head and hit it relentlessly against the board, villain par excellence whoever made her tears running out of her angelic eyes like an unbridled mine of heavenly water. If only Mozart had heard about her, he would certainly compose the sorest master piece ever. If only Hugo had known how oddly hurtful to be her, he would certainly opt for her as the epitome of suffering, for I do hear the saddest tunes coming from the shabbiest strings of violins ever touched when looking at her, and I do see the most wretched and exceedingly dismal creature when remembering her.
“Why does her head look too big?” strangers would ask her mother, “For some accident has happened when she was born…for she is too thin…for she was a bit sick…” and an unstopped string of answers would be invented by her mother to escape the exhaustingly irritating questions of people. But when it comes to her, she would always think that it is people who are the strange ones lacking most of all refinement and the savoir dire. Out of the sudden and while remembering this; she found her coffee more bitter than usual. Indeed, being aged means not being a human, a real human with feeling and compassion. Schooling time was not that of which to play and to join peers at all, for each time when they were assigning roles to play, they used to give her only the ugliest ones, while she deserved only to be the princess of all stories ever acted. Added to her inability to let bygones be bygones, for indeed there was nothing she can forget, nature has endowed her with the most delicately refined and philosophical spirit ever existed, as if she were deeply read in books of metaphysics and romanticism, all at once. She would go on asking herself “why? Why would they take me as if I were nothing?” a long lasting ribbon of unanswered questions would go on like a chilling Waltz in a lavishly gloomy place.
How about kiths? , nay, neither them would understand, nor kins wanting to go out and taking her, for they felt deeply ashamed. A tear after another, came out of her angelic eyes as she remembered these toughly commemorated moments. But nay, she recollected, Only her sister (4 years older than her) took such a good care of her, comforting and appeasing her pathos, she was indeed her only gleam of light to brighten and bliss, the only candlelight to cling into, as if nature bestowed upon her an unexhausted mine of love and compassion to infuse her hapless sister with.
But nay, despite all, our wretched and dismal friend, and as if endowed with all those faculties of enduring sufferings, loved autumn more than the spring and its blooming flowers. She loved rain and cold, perhaps it reminded her of her everlasting pain and torment. She loved walking under the rain; at least this would make of her a poet, for nothing happens haphazardly. Indeed it made of her an irresistibly quintessential writer of poems, novels, paving the way for her to contribute in all the faculties of emotions and passion. Indeed, out of a sudden, what used to hurt unmercifully exploded into an artist par excellence. For how would poems sound if not written by her plumes? And how would the melancholic violin vibrate if her fine fingertips were not dancing on its strings? .Ay she will live to blossom and inspire in all curves of all ages, ay, she will, despite the ocean of sorrows that haunts her, she will, that creature that used to be “despised by all and pitied by none” ,will.
“At a time when only the wind would yearn to accompany us and touch the chilling cheeks that have been long ago blooming like some melodious tone among the cacophonous voices , we need not to listen nor care about none, but lift the head high and march ahead.” She said with a confidently appeased air like soft velvet.