“Would you say you’re an open book?”
“I believe anything is readable so long as you learn to decipher the code in question.”
I think I used to want people to know what was going on in my head. I think I thought that if I could spell it out for them I’d feel less lonely and that it would make us more similar. Juvenile thoughts from when I was merely a girl.
They just rallied with their pitchforks.
Now my binding is torn loose and all of the pages have been strewn across a diagnostic. It’s still open, it’s just no longer a story in chronological order. People don’t like to read what they cannot relate to, they are not as fearlessly curious as some of their counterparts.
“That’s a good way to think. We should never stop trying to connect with those around us.”
My eyes cast up like daggers, the airy tone irks me because I do not feel the same way and I know that comment was charged with purpose. The aura on either side of the room is completely fluxed and I’ve no idea why no one is ever clever enough to learn this language.
I hear the voice whisper back, ‘because yours is indecipherable’, and I pull a grin because it is true.
I close my eyes off to a garden where I could plant my rose bushes and touch the tails of koi fish drifting by in their consistent ebb and flow. Where my irises fall to a human spectrum of sight and my breathing syncs with the peace of ignorance. Closed off to anything but the sound of trickling water and all the hidden whispers on the breeze.
“______? Are you okay?”
The words are like fingers snapping in front of my face and eventually I’m back in the room.
“I don’t particularly think people view us the same way.”
Like Victor Frankenstein and his Monster, you could agree one is good and the other is bad but which one is which will all lie in personal speculation. The truth is, good and bad don’t exist and societal preference hasn’t dawned on that notion yet. They haven’t dawned on a lot of things, if you ask me.
“I take it loneliness is something you’re no stranger to?”
“I believe loneliness is like a blanket. Sometimes it’s so thick and heavy it keeps out the light, other times, it keeps out the cold. Either way, you don’t get to choose if you’re born into it. They just wrap you up and send you on your way. The rest is yours to figure out and I suppose that’s half the fun in it.”
My tone is cool, concise and vacant. That is all it ever takes to silence a room.
Codes, clues and cues over Sunday coffee; and I am pulling my blanket up over my head and dodging reality like a reoccurring nightmare.