Written in: Bhuntar, India
Date: July, 2008
Each morning she wakes up with the same thought, 'I want to leave'. Each morning she brushes away this thought like persistant mosquitos. The thought never leaves her now. It is always there lurking in the cupboards of her mind. She hopes the cupboards won't open, but they always seem to burst out with some forgotten mementos.
The man sleeping beside her could be a Stranger. A Stranger not holding her in a tight embrace. Not whisphering sweet-nothings to her in the morning, at midday, at night. The Stranger sleeps, with his back to her, dreaming his Stranger dreams. The Stranger does not talk, he merely exists. Exists to exist. To spend time. To pass time. She often wonders about his thoughts, since for her, two lovers share thoughts. But not them. They are not even lovers. They are reduced to 'she' and 'the Stranger'. In the same bed.
She often looks at him and sees a rather vacant smile. Not the broad, relaxed smile he has for those he loves. Is he real with her or with the others? She wonders.
She is tired of thinking about these things. Things, which haunt and torment her from within. She does not say much. The reality she creates is often different from The Truth. The Truth, which is perceived the same way by two or more people at the same time. She prefers to see Her Truth. Beautiful and illuminated.
She feels isolated. Isolated and alone. She is secretely planning and vividly imagining- almost living it- her excape route. The relief. The feeling of burden lifted. The feeling of freedom from torment. The feeling of not needing to wonder, to dissect thoughts like little ants.
She wants Peace with a partner. But with this Stranger? Perhaps she is the Stranger.
Date: July, 2008
Each morning she wakes up with the same thought, 'I want to leave'. Each morning she brushes away this thought like persistant mosquitos. The thought never leaves her now. It is always there lurking in the cupboards of her mind. She hopes the cupboards won't open, but they always seem to burst out with some forgotten mementos.
The man sleeping beside her could be a Stranger. A Stranger not holding her in a tight embrace. Not whisphering sweet-nothings to her in the morning, at midday, at night. The Stranger sleeps, with his back to her, dreaming his Stranger dreams. The Stranger does not talk, he merely exists. Exists to exist. To spend time. To pass time. She often wonders about his thoughts, since for her, two lovers share thoughts. But not them. They are not even lovers. They are reduced to 'she' and 'the Stranger'. In the same bed.
She often looks at him and sees a rather vacant smile. Not the broad, relaxed smile he has for those he loves. Is he real with her or with the others? She wonders.
She is tired of thinking about these things. Things, which haunt and torment her from within. She does not say much. The reality she creates is often different from The Truth. The Truth, which is perceived the same way by two or more people at the same time. She prefers to see Her Truth. Beautiful and illuminated.
She feels isolated. Isolated and alone. She is secretely planning and vividly imagining- almost living it- her excape route. The relief. The feeling of burden lifted. The feeling of freedom from torment. The feeling of not needing to wonder, to dissect thoughts like little ants.
She wants Peace with a partner. But with this Stranger? Perhaps she is the Stranger.
1 comment:
hello dear,
is this the birth of a new writer and the invention of a new genere of literature - the "inner voice" novel?
in any way, it's beautiful :)
wishing you to stop wanting to leave ever again - and then you'll see that the stranger is you...
love love
Benny
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