But what is vanity when it isn’t screaming for attention? A veinless thought that doesn’t lead to a single destination, but decimated into unidentifiable bites, and sewn into the consciousness of the common man. The one who is standing on the sidewalk, rummaging through his pockets, searching for a lighter which is lying on the stairs, about to be kicked out of its abode by a pair of feet, careless as they hurry down in their heels. Or it could be the guy waiting in line at immigration, trying to hide his frustration. Smiling when talked to, replying when asked to.
It was a dull start to my day, having slept at dawn and waking up to the soft light of late morning, watching as the clouds passed me by, patterns in the vast canvas of trivial eternity. And how can anything that lasts forever be trivial, you ask. Well, how then do you explain us, I retort. Far from trivial, and not close to a forever either. It was supposed to be a joke, but you are not smiling. A nerve, that we try not to step on, a line that we try not to cross. An overwhelming urge, which we try not to acknowledge, as we trudge along two different tangents, separated by the fantastical existence of everything you refuse to acquiesce. And you make a face when I use big words, while I barely manage to hide a smile as I wait for your forehead to crease with exasperation.
I spent last evening with Jesse and Celine. As they walked through the back streets, somewhere in the Peloponnesian region of Messinia. And time seems to have stopped for me, since then. The smell of coffee, and adages burned from misuse. Thoughts scribbled in the dark and tears foraging into the unknown, the unfamiliar. Also, an indescribable pain, that throbs gently in my chest, as a reminder of what could have been. So I fell into my bed, and stayed curled, contemplating the choices which I never made.
But what I really want to do, is spend my time inside your memories. Thoughts you had as a child, in a language I cannot comprehend. But instead, I spent the afternoon covered in a cotton scarf of blue flowers over white, the cloth slipping over my skin with every movement I made, reminding me of childhood tents propped over the fourposter beds. And I mused in the company of Jesse and Celine, as they met for the first time in that train, a conversation starting on the basis of matrimonial disruptions. The cloth covered my curled up body, tucked under my toes and over my head, trying to shroud an existence which I am trying to renounce. And I saw the world as a blur of white canvas with blue patterns, changing intensities according to the moods of the glowering sun. And I listened, as Celine and Jesse started to get to know each other better, their voices resonating through the silence I had created.
Live in the present, I have been told. So I let my thoughts wander through their nine years of marriage instead.
-Women explore for eternity, in the garden of sacrifice.
-I sense a passive aggressive threat in everything you say.
-Now I know why Sylvia Plath put her head in the toaster.
-Oven, she put her head in the oven.