Strange ramblings and inquisitive whimsy

Month: March, 2011

Then She Was Gone

I First saw her when I was making my way to my table.  She was beautiful and natural and had this familiar, simple smile on her face.  She was done up in a southern casual way and looked pretty enough for church on easter sunday, but she didn’t see me and just kept on smiling and talking to the man standing beside her table.

I found a seat a few tables down and sat with my back to the wall so I could watch her over the top of my book.  I always like sitting in corners because it makes for the best people watching: You can sit there and watch folks go about their business and not get all tangled up in it.

Anyhow, I sat there watching this girl across the room and I’m pretty sure she was the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.  I noticed the little things about her face – about her mannerisms – that reminded me of old friends, even of old lovers.  In a way I wanted to figure out what it was that made her so freaking attractive, but at the same time I was fine leaving it unexplained.  It somehow left a bit of the mystery in the whole thing.  Over and over again I found that I had stopped reading completely just to stare at her and over and over again I would start reading again half hoping she had noticed my awe-struck glances and half praying she hadn’t.

Everyone else in the room seemed to vanish as I stole peaks in her direction; at least until the tan, southern housewife-like woman sat down between myself and my dream lady.  She was strange-looking…  She had that look as if she had never even thought that maybe things weren’t quite right in this world we inhabit.  I guess you could call it complacency?  Yes.  She looked like a complacent oompaloompa.

I think she may have thought I was looking at her because I caught her eye a few times.  That was admittedly a bit awkward.

So I went back to reading, but I was too busy thinking about the girl a few tables down to really take in the words of the page.  So I gave it up again in hopes of seeing a few more seconds of her elegance.

But when I looked up, she was gone.  It was as simple as that.  The table was empty, the chairs still pushed out and she was nowhere to be seen.  Almost as though she had never been there at all – as though she was only another dream in which for me to find solace and then disappointment.


What Came Next or, After The Letter

I don’t even really know why I’m writing.  I suppose the tone is dark, suppressed, almost as though there’s someone else in my head that I’m speaking softly to in order to work out my own feelings…  I feel like I’ve been in my own strange movie these last few days; like I’ve been in the kind of movie I love because it’s so starkly different from my own life.  In so many ways I feel different from myself.  This is new to me – detachment is new to me.

I knew the most likely outcome of her receiving my letter.  I realized as I was writing the letter that I had to be ready for whatever answer she gave, but I wasn’t prepared for this

Her words were like a knife coated in sedative – numbing the wound as it cut.  There were no feelings of pain, but when she was done – when she was gone – I could see the wound.  I could see it, but I still didn’t feel it.  Everything she said made so much sense, and the way she moved her intention smoothly across my heart left me with no option but to agree with her.  As she was telling me that she couldn’t let herself love me, I sat listening to her, getting drunk on her words – just another thing to ease the psychological effects of watching helplessly as she cut me open.

I’ve heard that waking up in the middle of surgery can change your life – you find yourself laying there, helpless.  There’s no control in that.  You don’t realize what was done to you until it’s already done, and then there’s nothing you can do.

The only question left is, “How long will it feel painless before the sedative wears off and the reality sets in?”.  Or maybe I can just stay drunk on her poetry until I find another drug…  Or there’s a whole new story that involves the drugs becoming useless and irrelevant – a story that stands firmly on the concept that my own strength and power of resiliency will heal the wound as the intoxication recedes.  I think I like that story.  I think I like that dream.  In reality, that’s my real, natural path.  I’ve never been one of addiction to the power of people, but somehow that addiction, that particular incarnation of my life seems a bit more romantic.

Which brings us to another strange concept:  Love is extra-worldly, however romance is firmly rooted in this perception of the world.  The object of my search is to find an appreciation for love – an obsession with love and a simple and respectful disregard for romance.