There was a psychiatrist who had the most simple office in a simple building. I stumbled in there by accident.
On the board by the windows, 15 names were scrawled in the same handwriting. One of them had a small exclamation mark beside it. All had the words "confession" lined up to the right, and had semi-detached pieces of Post Its to the right. As I flip one over to see, 8 words greet me;
fusion worrisome heartache divorce particular ride why? testify
They are all jotted down in a hurrisome, fierce manner.
The Post Its flutter in the air as someone shuts the door. I stand facing the wall, determined not to look back for some reason.
I think of Dorian Gray--I think he has come to fetch something.
* * *
Husband and wife sit in the Opera, with their little girl in between. Her eyes are a shade of clear gray, and her face is filled with intense secrecy; her lips are shut tight, but curve a smile now and then. She is about 5 years old. Her father lays down a crumpled brown paper bag by his feet.
"Oh, why the bag Dad? I'm never going back to ballet!" she exclaims, looking at the bag her father had brought back with him. "I don't think it's necessary at all."
There are probably some leotards and silk slippers sleeping in the bag. Her father shrugs,"Well I can't afford to pay again if you ever decide you want to go back--and that is, after the summer holidays I daresay--after all we had to quit now in April, because the administrator wanted to keep his books straight for the upcoming seasons."
"But Dad," she calmly states, "I have no intention whatsoever of going back. It's going to cost me, and I'm afraid I can't excite myself with ballet anymore; it hurts, it's lonesome, and it's absolutely boring."
"Ennui..." her father mumbles.
Now they are in their summer garden, by a tree of oranges. The air smells like wet honeydew and cardboard.
"Dad, I thought I'd pick some of these," the girl says, pointing at the oranges, "But now that I've thought it over, I think we should pick those," and she points to a different clump of trees in the corner. "These are not organic, I'm afraid."
The father looks worried. "Dear," he begins, "Why are you always soaked in such seriousness? Why don't you go have some fun, kill time reading books and drawing pictures of fancy princesses like any girl surely loves to do?...Here, let me take your basket. Run along now."
The girl says nothing, but slowly puts down her basket on the wet grass. She is wearing ballet slippers. As she starts walking back towards the house, something seems to have caught her eye in the woods. Just as her father turns round to look at the other orange tree she'd pointed out, she sprints through the grass and rustles into the dark shade of trees.
Like a rabbit.
Tuesday
I didn't remember seeing her as I entered.
I thought I was entering with two of my best friends, one marching before me and the other lagging behind. We were in a shop, a jammed-crammed one with everything you could ever think of.
A whole selection of cowboy boots, phoney glasses, Stylish Shimmering Scarfs("3 for 2!"), glasses of ice tea, empty lip stick containers, quiant fluffy items scattered all across the floors, stuffed geese(hmm?), cherry bottles, diet coke posters with stashes of old Marvel Comics, Snickers(just the wrappers for some reason), a heap of green and purple Chuck Taylors, peach scented body lotion, Mr&Mrs Potato figurines, cosmetic manuals from the late 80's featuring a woman in pin-up curls all over, an arrangement of denim fabrics, colourful feathered hats, etc, etc.....the Harajuku-like craftiness made me wince, just a little.
It was quite blemish.
We lost our tagging friend and I followed my precedator--it was no more the insides of an anonymous shop, but in a miserable patch of the woods. It was haunted.
Someone sneezed.
I felt nothing equivalent of the wonder Lucy must've felt (in the chronicles of Narnia)
I just wanted to go further,
and transport myself a million light years away.
We ended up reaching a wall. We were in the shop again, but in an extremely mousey corner.
It was dusty, old, and murky.
I thought of saying something, but thought better.
My friend then peeled open the wall, like she'd peel an avocado: a slit in the middle, the skin coming apart. I chose to hurridly follow for no good reason--possibly because I was curious.
(Come to think of it, all my dreams are based on my actions deriving from curiosity....)
I wasn't supposed to be here, I now realised.
My friend swerved around, looking extremely aghast.
"Why are you in here?" she slowly growled. It turns out she wasn't who I thought she was.
She was another of my good friends--someone who I can't meet as daily.
"I thought I was to come alone."
"Well....." I thought.
There were 5,6 girls in the room, all looking at pictures and gathered round a great white table.
It was cheerful; the lights probably did the trick.
Dressing rooms always look nice.
I thought I was entering with two of my best friends, one marching before me and the other lagging behind. We were in a shop, a jammed-crammed one with everything you could ever think of.
A whole selection of cowboy boots, phoney glasses, Stylish Shimmering Scarfs("3 for 2!"), glasses of ice tea, empty lip stick containers, quiant fluffy items scattered all across the floors, stuffed geese(hmm?), cherry bottles, diet coke posters with stashes of old Marvel Comics, Snickers(just the wrappers for some reason), a heap of green and purple Chuck Taylors, peach scented body lotion, Mr&Mrs Potato figurines, cosmetic manuals from the late 80's featuring a woman in pin-up curls all over, an arrangement of denim fabrics, colourful feathered hats, etc, etc.....the Harajuku-like craftiness made me wince, just a little.
It was quite blemish.
We lost our tagging friend and I followed my precedator--it was no more the insides of an anonymous shop, but in a miserable patch of the woods. It was haunted.
Someone sneezed.
I felt nothing equivalent of the wonder Lucy must've felt (in the chronicles of Narnia)
I just wanted to go further,
and transport myself a million light years away.
We ended up reaching a wall. We were in the shop again, but in an extremely mousey corner.
It was dusty, old, and murky.
I thought of saying something, but thought better.
My friend then peeled open the wall, like she'd peel an avocado: a slit in the middle, the skin coming apart. I chose to hurridly follow for no good reason--possibly because I was curious.
(Come to think of it, all my dreams are based on my actions deriving from curiosity....)
I wasn't supposed to be here, I now realised.
My friend swerved around, looking extremely aghast.
"Why are you in here?" she slowly growled. It turns out she wasn't who I thought she was.
She was another of my good friends--someone who I can't meet as daily.
"I thought I was to come alone."
"Well....." I thought.
There were 5,6 girls in the room, all looking at pictures and gathered round a great white table.
It was cheerful; the lights probably did the trick.
Dressing rooms always look nice.
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