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Ephemeral Delusion

Saturday, December 27, 2008, 6:23 PM

WANDERLUST

Beveled and matted, this is how these photos talk. Now who says that only the black and whites can capture the soul?

My little decoy, this is the story she is going to tell. She has the prettiest black eyes, long brown hair, slightly wavy, a hint of platinum blonde in streaks of twos and threes, an adorable little cleaved chin. Her features are big, big yet gentle, humongous yet soft. This is the contradictory about her, sometimes it seems like things are unarguably right; but may not always be the case is it not? What do they know about her taste? There’s always this thing about the way she walks that made people sniff a giggle, not to ridicule her but to only to tease innocently; how could a girl like her give such masculine vibe in those tight dresses and heels. Let alone the sight as she lean against the wall with a cigarette resting between her slightly parted chapped lips, solitary she stood with her arms crossed in front of her chest, slouching beside the railing breathing the morning breeze. People waking up and doing their chores, yet no one noticed of her, because she is good at hiding and deceiving; now how evil can someone be as they attain the supremacy to lie without blinking, no matter how you try to you can never seems to see through her. Was there a soul to begin with, did she sell hers away like Dorian Gray?

Something peculiar happened one night, when people sang “its so beautiful I want cry”, this was exactly that queer feeling she had. Prior to the rush, that adrenaline surge which perhaps was the best she ever had, as she looked into those eyes, she felt as though she could see her own soul in that sheer pitch darkness. What was it again? It was comparably an epitome of a cloud nine experience which she never thought it could have existed, fallen from the sky like a gift from the Lord. She dragged her whole body up as high as she could, try to go with the flow, and then it struck. Like as though Big Ben has struck, everything doesn’t seem to matter anymore. Those neurones began random firing of electrical pulses across from the toes all the way up and driving straight to her head. The surge of hormones and electricity; this shock, is too much to take, as the noises around her went silent, except for that humming voice erupting from deep down her ear drums they began to vibrate. Slowly and softly at first; like that of a mother whisking flour and egg mixture to prepare to bake a cake for her husband’s birthday; before gaining speed and momentum, humming and singing that same chord of lyrics again, when is it going to stop? She could see those lips move, but she can’t make out what they’re saying. It was silence still, and without any warning, pleasure and pain were gone and those tears rushed out of her eyes.

She lost all her sensation after that; amongst the numbness for a sound, all she could hear was “Where were you?” It didn’t bother her much from that onwards, as she half heartedly push the roller coaster off the highest peak down the track, in one clean swift move. That was it, and now it is over. Could she ever look at this with the same light again? Were the tears shed to bid her goodbye? This could mean the end of her present life, the beginning of a new journey for her; yes she is scared, who wouldn’t be? We are all afraid of the unknown, nevertheless how brave she though she was, how ready she was, it doesn’t matter, for the pit lying ahead looks deep and grossly misdemeanours. Whose face was it that she saw in the pit? Was it the same face imprinted on the voice before the revelation, the Big Ben?

She is shivering in fear now, those big black eyes are trembling and screaming; I shall stop writing. Lest for the betterment of her health, lets not probe further; for maybe when she feels better tomorrow I shall make her talk again.

Maybe she will come to my window tomorrow.

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