Batered SuitcaseA Story by Snigdha
She stood in the warm pool of sunlight;
her battered suitcase piled on the side-walk again. She knew she had
longer ways to go. Unaccustomed to such calmness, she wanted to delay
the other worlds that were waiting.
It had been inconceivable to her that
people could destroy each other, over and over again. She wished to
offer comfort, to erase the damage. She didn't understand why people
were not used to experiencing something without over-thinking the
potential consequences it may have. It seemed absurd to her that
people should have such skewed perceptions about the things that were
most important to them.
She had observed that most people went
through phases. Some-days they were the people they were supposed to
be; both them and their silhouettes. They hoped that on the days they
were only darkened lines, she was still willing to be near them. Even
with this thought in mind, they would buy her drinks and then tell
her lies. And when all other excuses had been exhausted, they blamed
it on the days.
There were slow days and busy days and
dull days and hateful days and the rare days " and they were both
long and short at the same time. They ended up flowing into one
another and lost their names. Those days were a blur, commutes
forgotten over pixel-strings of texts sent describing nothing, days
awash in emails containing famous quotes from famous books that were
never read and authors whose names were mispronounced. And then those
days turned into weeks, and months and years.
They thought she had lost her way but
they didn't know that not all those who wander were lost. It
comforted her, in a strange way, to travel from the hills to the
desert and meet all these people who were all so alike and so
different. They were all alone. They made futile attempts to be
sincere. To be there for someone else. They made promises that the
other person wouldn't be alone. This was friendship. This was love.
This was humans at their best and worst.
Nothing was simple, little was whole.
They were part technology, part broken family, part digital, part
unknowable and in-capable of belief in mystery.
But then there were some people that made her reconsider. They told her to not lose hope " that what she seeked would be found. They trusted ghosts. They trusted dreams. They trusted their heart, and they trusted their story. They were so blissfully unaware of the demons that they were still capable of finding joy in the smell of pages that had become brown with age. So she picked up the suitcase again, and walked on. She had longer ways to go. © 2013 Snigdha |
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