It was the outrage that came from her timid being that bored them all. Her overwhelming stream of emotions and reach for the presence not present. It had sparked the uneasiness of the rest who couldn’t stand what they called “the girl”. They thought of her conversations as one filled with illusive poems and a rare kind of joy for places and people they can’t relate to. “It must have been hell to endure or maybe she just told us another version of it all”, sane people thought this.
Picture gotten from-Pinterest
No one knew havoc like she. The turmoil she built in the others’ hearts when she spoke of their guilt and wrote to save those ridden on. At some point, I could tell she became immune to the voices that overstretched her will. She went on to lean on her own tears when her bed and those white fluffy pillows were too far from her exhaling temple. The fear she bore was all printed yet made discrete in her confidence and zeal. It was her weakness and her battleground but in all, she fought them.
“I remember replacing the still life image with an abstract. I remember the first gaze of disbelieve. I remember putting it away countless times and bringing it back to the same spot, hoarding the meaningless like it were a pair of shoes”. That was the art. ” The meaning I found in no meaning, spellbound by each scene I displayed in my own confusion.” ” Should I dispose this or not?”, “all in my head with no form of frivolous escape. It earns a place as always in the warmest of hearts whenever I tell it, just like you just felt knowing this.”
It’s nothing. No one will ever know of this kind. The chronicle is void so does the person who just told it, but then who? My plea, feel nothing.
Dyna Ekwueme Copyright, 2016.