silva rerum

I took the tube back out of town

It is exceedingly difficult, I am finding, to come up with good, genuine characters for stories, regardless of length. I’m not (and assuredly won’t ever be) talented enough to merely conjure entire lifetimes out of my imagination (like some sorcerer à la Prospero) so I am limited to writing about those whom I know. I’m inspired by the people I meet, people I notice from day to day. The woman on the bus whose heartbreak is etched across her face, her impending divorce rending her heart so much that her pain is not only emotional, but physical. The boy in class who never hisses at the ones sitting down a row (and slightly to the left) who continually jabber while he is dealing with the pressure his parents have placed upon him to become a medical doctor. I’m haunted by these people I notice, I see them in my thoughts, my dreams and my nightmares.

I used to blanch inwardly at the mention of human physicality in literature (definitely as a result of my offended Victorian sensibilities). That the human experience was so physical, so raw, elicited a visceral reaction of mild fear. Now, it’s one of the things upon which I can’t help but focus – the scent of skin, the brush of hair, the heaving sigh. What characters wear (or don’t wear) intrigues me.

I fear that I will not do them justice, not at all. I know that in all actuality, I will never be able to convey someone’s story just as it should be done. I will miss out on details. They may be small details or, just by chance, they may be large. I will fail to convey the richness and complexity of someone’s story. And by failing, I do a great injustice, a violent injustice, to someone’s tale. I do not wish that to be so.

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

Have you ever wanted someone so much that it hurt – every inch of your body, every fiber of your existence, aches and longs for this person? Upon waking up, thought about how badly you need this person – how it feels like drowning in loneliness, suffocating in nothingness, to not be noticed, not have your feelings reciprocated? Hands hovering nervously over the phone, considering whether or not to dial and when you do, hanging up at the sound of, “Hello?” Felt your heart soar and perform cartwheels in the blue skies above as you are acknowledged, just as you are? Hearing a song on the radio and all you can think of is whether or not you both would enjoy it? Sitting on the lawn at the end of the day, watching the sun set, thinking what it would be like if you weren’t alone?

Trying to write is like trying to force the entirety of human emotion through something so small as the head of a needle. Bernoulli’s equation doesn’t help very much in this case.

And so to be delivered entirely from humanity

He boarded the bus, noticing the unbearable, suffocating heat and the telltale stench of people whose bodies were unaccustomed to the recent, unexpected temperatures. He strode past the passengers seated at the front of the bus who were lazily fanning themselves with whatever objects they could muster – a hat, a book, a piece of paper. One seat was empty in the back, having been thoroughly baked by the sun’s rays streaming through the dirty window. He took a seat anyway and hoped that a seat was better than no seat at all. The bus started. Turning expertly around the hairpin loop, the driver navigated the bus through and out the bus loop into the city. And as the bus crossed the bridge, he stared listlessly out the window, thinking about nothing at all. At that moment, a great sadness filled his chest, threatening to engulf every fiber of his being with a burning despair, with overwhelming anguish. He blinked once or twice, still looking out at the expanse of blue sky above him, puzzled by this sudden sorrow. After some contemplation, he understood.