Chasing Light – 2

Her eyes were on the flickering wick. As it burned off its own existence, the warm, translucent wax trickled down the cold, hard body, and more and more light emanated from it. The semi-dark room was dimly illuminated by a set of these blood-red candles. The place had an old, beaten down look to it, with its yellowing wallpaper, failing to cover the old brown bricks in some places, and shabby, unmatched furniture. Yet, there was something magical and welcoming about it. The swiftly fading twilight seeped through the only open window in the corner. The faint murmur of people deeply engrossed in conversations filled the space. A slow, trance-like melody from a nearby jukebox pervaded the room. The air smelt of a delicious mix between sweet vanilla and warm espresso.

She sat on a high revolving stool, waiting for her mochachino to arrive. This was one of the few luxuries of her past life that she occasionally allowed herself: To indulge in the familiar warmth of her favorite beverage. A drink, that reminded her of home. A time and place of love, laughter, belongingness, and never-ending light, that she had left a long, long time ago. She found herself falling into a hypnotic trance, triggered by the combination of music and memories of home.

“Here you go miss”, said the Barista as he slid her coffee in front of her. “You look like you could use a cookie. Tell you what, it’s on the house. Enjoy!” The unexpected kindness of this stranger caught her off-guard. In a state of panic, she looked down. A long, quivering shadow stood attached to her stool. With a sigh of relief, she looked up at the attractive man standing in front of her. Although she was not used to such warmth, she was grateful for it. Thanking the nice young man, she rested the palms of her cold hands against the ceramic exterior of the hot mug. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, drawing in the aroma permeating from the coffee and the cookie. She heard an audible growl, and realized with a start that it was her own hungry stomach. It had been a long day.

Saying a silent prayer, she took a small bite. The cookie must have been more than a week old, but to her it tasted divine. She finished her coffee and cookie quickly, and offered to pay the Barista the full price. He smiled at her and with a slight wink said, “The cookie’s on me.” She supposed in another life she might have reciprocated this young man’s innocent flirtation. But this was not the place nor the time. Forcing a smile, she paid the man and got down from the stool.

The twilight had by now turned into pitch black darkness outside. The people had already started to leave. Her eyes fixated on the one person she was here for. She had been following him for days, and tonight was the night she was finally going to meet him. She had heard many things about this man. She hoped that she had finally found the one who had the answers.

The man in the dark brown overcoat stood up to leave. It was time.

Remembering Miss Havisham

When I was in grade 6, we had to read Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations as part of our English Lit course. That was my introduction to Dickens. While reading the story, the characters of Estella, with her exquisite beauty and haughty appeal, and Pip, with his child-like innocence and honesty, appealed to me the most. I was scared of Miss Havisham. I remember thinking what a strange name it was, Havisham. Something about her disheveled hair, cold eyes, and frayed and withered wedding gown, made me uneasy. The fact that all the clocks in the mansion were stopped at 20 mins to 9, the precise moment when she received the letter bearing news of her fiance’s betrayal, and other things like the untouched wedding cake, now rotting away, unnerved me even more. There was no question about it. To the 13-yr old me, Miss Havisham was as scary as a ghost, perhaps even more. I just didn’t understand her. How could someone take such extreme measures to deal with a tragedy? How was it possible to live secluded for so many years, away from people and sunlight? It was mind – boggling to me.

Fast forward 15 years, one marriage, one massive heartbreak, one painful divorce later. I now understand Miss Havisham fully. I understand her hatred for men. I understand her desire to live in isolation for the rest of her life. I understand her stopping time at the exact moment when all happiness left her. Her life as she knew it and as she dreamt it ended at 20 minutes to 9. Even if she had not stopped all the clocks then, that moment would have been forever etched on her mind,  and she would have always replayed that moment in her head in an endless loop. Because it just never goes away. For her, time did not heal, as she stopped time. I understand it all now.

I suddenly remembered Miss Havisham today. And to my utter amazement, I realized I could now relate to her. Such is life and it’s miseries.

The Phoenix

With every passing day, she learns. Grows a bit wiser with every single moment of life. With every heartbreak, every shard of disappointment, every trickle of broken promises, unintentional misunderstandings, and every stab of cruelty, she adjusts herself. She morphs into the survivor that she was meant to be.

She’s thankful to all those who were evil enough to slash through the thin veil of her naivety and pierce her soft heart. For without them, without those sharp claws, she would have never learned the real lessons of life. She would have never willingly taken off her rainbow-colored glasses and perceived this world the way it truly is… a bottomless pit of gloom, hopelessness, and misery.

So with every passing day, she grows stronger. The translucent veil continues to become thick and leathery. The glittery pixie dust in her hands gets replaced by shiny daggers.

The Phoenix is rising.

Let me be

No I don’t wan’t to talk.

I don’t want the small talks. I don’t want the long, heart-to-heart talks. I don’t want to be mean, I just don’t want to share my life with you. I don’t want to tell you how my day was. I know how it was, it was good, it was bad, it was horrible, it was satisfying. I don’t want to share my satisfaction with you. I want to deal with the good and the bad and the ugly all by myself. I don’t need your counselling or your shoulder to lean on. I might be tired, I might be damaged, I might be broken, but I’m ok. I don’t want your sympathy, or your pity. I don’t want to show you what goes on in my head. My head is my private heaven, and my private hell. I don’t want you to know who I am. So don’t ask me. 

I want to be in my own perfect solitude. Blissfully surrounded by my tangible belongings. My material possessions. Yes, I’m vain like that. 

So let me be. Don’t show that you care for me, when you don’t. No one cares. So stop pretending, and go back to your mundane life. You don’t have to fill the awkward silence with small talk. You don’t have to call me out of obligation. Spare me.

Just let me be. 

Good vibrations

There are good days, and then there are horrible days.

Somewhere in between, there are days which start out horrible and then turn to really really good just because one single person did or said something to make you smile, or laugh, or gave you a gooey mushy feeling inside your heart. These are the days that make you feel good to be alive. That make you feel like putting in the effort to have social interactions and in effect getting to know people was worth it. These are the days that renew your faith in friendship, humanity, love and kindness. 

On days like these, you want to embrace life. And you want to give back, in hopes of getting the same feeling back again. 

These are the days that make life worth living.