Watcher
I had never wanted to take part in real life. I had always been content with watching, perhaps a little too voyeuristically, and isolating myself from what I saw as the potential for hurtfulness.
I met her one day; I don't care to remember how or why. She wanted to tell me a story about 'that which is,' that was all she said. It sounded fanciful, so I became interested in listening to her story. I remember the feeling I had when she started in her lyrical way. Her voice had a gentle timber to it that made me feel relaxed.
She spoke thoughtfully, pausing only for the occasional nod of understanding from me. She talked at first about one of her earliest memories of being stung by a bee, and weeping at the bee's misfortune, as its lower abdomen separated from the rest of its doomed body. She talked of nature and of civilization and of the future, quietly weeping to herself at times. I remember thinking to myself that it would be a good idea to close my eyes.
When I closed my eyes, I felt simply...there. Her voice twinkled on as she told her little story, but I was only catching parts of the story now, because I became more interested in listening to her inflections and the way she would pronounce certain words. She may have used terms like 'insatiable hunger' and 'longing' and 'endless searching,' but her words are all a jumble to me now. She was intoxicating me and I was starting to become aware of this. I wanted to know whom she was and what she was and why she had chosen to tell her story to me.
I must have drifted off, I think to myself now, I must have been dreaming. I became caught in a raging river, unable to control myself. The river was flowing one way and I was being pulled the other. Upstream.
to be continued...
I had never wanted to take part in real life. I had always been content with watching, perhaps a little too voyeuristically, and isolating myself from what I saw as the potential for hurtfulness.
I met her one day; I don't care to remember how or why. She wanted to tell me a story about 'that which is,' that was all she said. It sounded fanciful, so I became interested in listening to her story. I remember the feeling I had when she started in her lyrical way. Her voice had a gentle timber to it that made me feel relaxed.
She spoke thoughtfully, pausing only for the occasional nod of understanding from me. She talked at first about one of her earliest memories of being stung by a bee, and weeping at the bee's misfortune, as its lower abdomen separated from the rest of its doomed body. She talked of nature and of civilization and of the future, quietly weeping to herself at times. I remember thinking to myself that it would be a good idea to close my eyes.
When I closed my eyes, I felt simply...there. Her voice twinkled on as she told her little story, but I was only catching parts of the story now, because I became more interested in listening to her inflections and the way she would pronounce certain words. She may have used terms like 'insatiable hunger' and 'longing' and 'endless searching,' but her words are all a jumble to me now. She was intoxicating me and I was starting to become aware of this. I wanted to know whom she was and what she was and why she had chosen to tell her story to me.
I must have drifted off, I think to myself now, I must have been dreaming. I became caught in a raging river, unable to control myself. The river was flowing one way and I was being pulled the other. Upstream.
to be continued...