Dec 26 2008
The bridge
She thought a lot. Mostly about him, but other issues corrupted her seemingly young mind. People saw her as a teenager waiting to experience new things and make helplessly immature mistakes, redeem herself, breathe and reboot. But she was not like that.
She refused to be caught in the stereotypical vicious circle that threatened her individuality, though she never made the effort to conserve this unique image of herself. It was an inner power she had never thought to use to her own advantage, though sometimes these advantages just flowed to her and she was too deep in thought to appreciate them. Some people would stick up their nose and call her ungrateful, rudely walk out of her life without any apparent reason…just shallow frustration.
She never cared much for these people, because the very shallowness of their reaons irritated her. Sometimes, though, she felt lonely. It wasn’t a loneliness that could be cured with visits from friends or long walks by his side. It was a deep melancholy carved into her soul, one she could not escape, nor run away from.
At night, her inner fire would ignite. Sometimes, she’d lie in bed…tired, physically exhausted, but unable to put her mind to rest. If the night was cool, she’d wrap a light blanket around her shoulders and compare it’s warmth to his arms. She had a large window in her room, one over-looking the street. Orange city lights drew pools of mango fire on the floor of her room, and sometimes she’d stare. Most of the time though, she’d push open her window and sit on the window-sill, the cool night air flowing through her dark hair in silky waves.
The street was always quiet. The silence had an ominous feel to it, the kind of feeling you get when you’re walking under an unsteady-looking bridge that looks as if it might collapase at any given time.
She’d sit there for long minutes, gazing at the dark, starless night sky, wondering why it was that she was given this life and why she had to always feel an internal struggle. She’d always ask this question, but would brush it away, always wondering who she was talking to. She was sure nobody cared. That’s why she felt alone. Nobody cared enough. She didn’t blame them, though.
“Tout l’monde a leurs propre problemes, ma pitoune, a friend had once told her. P’i i’zont p’o l’temps pour toi. C’est la realite, ma pitoune. Accepte p’i vis-la, ta vie.”
She smiled a little. But not a happy smile. A smile that questioned everything she knew, everything she was. A smile that wondered if the bridge would collapse…or more, if it had already collapsed.
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