She finally waked up. She checked her watch for time once again. It was three minutes. She guessed wrong and so she was late. She crawled off the bed trying to recall the major scenes of the previous night's dream. She failed to remember a thing. It did really matter for her to keep at least a little detail, for that dream was one of her rarest. The feeling was real. She had felt genuine delight. The experience was intense. She wanted badly to keep that moment, to not let it go but her efforts were for naught. So she rubbed her eyes, quickly neatened her hair and arose. She walked towards the door and on her way she stumbled over something, a chair may be. She couldn't remember the last time that she hadn't put her foot on something she hadn't been supposed to and she lost her balance, she tried successfully to regain control. She thought to herself that's what always happen when you force yourself to be awake early in the morning. She went directly to the bathroom. She was always wondering why she wakes up every morning with her bladder ready for explosion the next minute. Well, she wasn't a doctor and she wasn't really interested in the answer but weird thoughts come at her every so often. "Do normal people had that too?"... "Who cares", she thought.
While tinkling, her mind came to become more clear. She washed her hands, washed her face, brushed her teeth, looked in the piper glass and sighed. Yet another bad hair day, she quickly checked for a pimple coming to ruin the little that remains sane in her day but she was disappointed, her face was clear.
Superstition. That's some kind of a religion with abstract rules such signs and if things go bad they're likely to go worse. She believes in signs as they were concrete destiny. But, her faith wasn't on her side that morning.
She looked beautiful -except for her hair- but she could do something to conceal that little flaw. Like most girls, she's pretty good at it. He wouldn't notice it anyway. She gathered all her hair a laid it all on her left shoulder and that simply worked.
She went to the kitchen and started sweeping the leftovers from her father's breakfast. It was all there, the empty plate, the cup of coffee, the egg shells, the bread knife but she couldn't picture an after-meal table tidier than that. She admires her father since her childhood. That silent smiling man who had been starting his days at dawn for years, to work for his family. As long as she's breathing she wouldn't forget her four-years-old memory of her daddy's large back walking out of the door the day she insisted to imitate him and arise early.
She prepared something to eat for herself. She went to her room, opened the closet and took a look. What could she wear with her asymmetric hair style? She decided to put on something decent. She can't stand having all eyes on her. She's the kind of people who blush for mere assumed intentions. It seemed to her that the way she made up her hair that day would keep her classy enough in his eyes.
The breakfast was tasty. Had one fellow been asked how the meal was, he wouldn't have the adequate set of words to put a convincing comment in any shape or form. He would disgrace the true answer. But, she was something else. She can't but describe thoughts and feelings. She has the ability to depict such fragile abstract concepts in simple recognizable metaphors. Even if she had been the one who had made it, she enjoyed the food like some kind of an exquisite aria in a mezzo-soprano voice, it was a pale shade of blue, it was the number two.
Colors, forms, places, people, happenings don't need description, they're quite self-explanatory to her. They need may be a little subjective interpretation. Some people could judge an artifact made by someone from its looks but few could sense from that peculiar work the spirit, the aura coming from it, that precious part of the maker's soul he instinctively put in his work.
Perception is subjective and even deceptive and she refuses deliberately to rely on someone else's description of things that she could see, hear, touch or smell. They would probably infect the truth with their own defective and imperfect model of this humble and yet beautiful existence. They should learn how to see beyond what meets the eye.
She's far too sensitive and emotionally deep for a girl of her age, or simply for her age. She would look weird around the shallow girls who think all the time about uncanny shoes, the birthdays of their eternal rivals, mask-like sunglasses, extremely-colored leather handbags, clothes and as many fancy things as there are in the world. She's not that kind of girls who fervently wish to go out with the handsome and popular and mysterious guy named A. that alpha male who inherently believe that success is almost null without the recognition of the maximum number of people surrounding him.
She utterly does care about her looks, about him and for him. However, her looks won't be to her life, the star to a puny planet.
She put the plates, the cups, the glasses in the sink. Her mother would wake up later and bring about an end to the daily state of chaos before opening up her little sweets shop next-door to bring forth happiness.
"I guess many people out there don't know the meaning of happiness", she wondered. She thought that it was just another big question in her little head and it wasn't neither the appropriate time nor highly imperative to search for an immediate confirmation.
She grabbed her handbag -That is very true : she carries handbags too. She has needs after all-.
And there she was, walking out of that door following her father's footsteps.
---
Footnote:
The image posted herein is copyrighted to its respective owners.
0 comments:
Post a Comment