She kept her memories in boxes. Or rather, one box, since She never had that many memories to begin with.
The Box was stacked in the darkest corner of her closet, under some last year's school papers and clothes thrown there in frustration - since they obviously didn't fit anymore.
The Box was much unlike a scrapbook. Or maybe it wasn't. It held tidbits that She thought were important. That She didn't want to forget. Yet, unlike with a scrapbook, She never looked through It. The only time She'd see It would be when She wanted to add something - that would seem terribly unimportant to someone else - to the collection she would not be looking at in the next years.
It held things, irrelevant and minor at the first glance, and even at the second, third and forth to an average person, but they were things She never wanted to disappear. Because once people forget something, it ceases to exist for them. Random school papers and notes, every postcard and letter she had ever gotten, photographs - but not the ones of Her, tickets -to anywhere and anything-, and everything anyone in their right -and not right- mind could think of to keep.
She had no reason for the Box.
The Box sometimes frightened her.
The Box would never become profitable, because memories are not marketable and not sellable, since the only memories you ever have any interest in are yours and your close ones'.
However, there was a Reason for the Box.
Just not now. And not here.
Spoiler for Words:
Since the beginning of times - which is easier definable as since She could consciously remember, or since when She was 7 - She had a passion for words that would seem "pretty." The way Words intertwined in order to make sense of themselves - She found it incredibly gorgeous. She would read, for hours, picking out the most beautiful phrases, saying them again and again, and writing most of them in notebooks - if she didn't forget.
At the same time, she despised poetry. She found that everything that poets chose to do with the Words petty, pathetic and predictable - which was as much as an insult and blasphemy to her. Rhymes just seemed too dull, and rhythms they chose just seemed to be all wrong, and voices, in which people'd read them would seem too out of tune. She loved e.e.cummings, however, because the way he used words was more than just telling a story - it was art. Which was what She believed was right.
In search for more beautiful Words, She learned languages. She didn't have a reason to learn them except for words, she never wanted to be what they called a "translator" - because she believed that Words deserved to be kept in their original form, and that translation made them lose their beauty.
But She never had her own Words, She would use others' to express her point of view - which, in the end, meant that She had no point of view. Because, after all, even though she loved Words, especially the ones that'd seem "pretty," She was too afraid to make up her own. Because She was terrified that people would not understand what she meant, which was inevitable if she tried to use her Words.
Spoiler for Wings:
"At times, I know I can fly. I see the world, it's all the same, greyer out of my right eyes and yellower out of my left, but I feel that I could just fly away if I just knew how to get off the ground," She said, as always, to Herself. She knew it all, so talking wasn't a way of sharing information, but a way of trying to deal, because journaling never worked, since She'd try to write so fast to keep up with Her thoughts, that She'd never be able to read what She wrote afterwards.
So She talked, to Herself, against every conviction of the Society, and it didn't matter that the Society was convinced that it was "strange," because, to Her, it was no more than a way of processing information, Facts. Things She knew, but didn't quite realize, and things She wasn't aware of, but that were in Her subconscious, somewhere.
And today, She knew that She had wings.
She said that they were made out of sugar free sugar, because, eventually, - as She knew, but didn't quite realize - they were going to dissolve into thin air, but at the same time, there was nothing sweet about them - what's so sweet about knowing and realizing that you could fly, but can't, because you don't know how to start? And there was nothing real about them, since, even though She knew they were there, no one saw them, which, obviously, quite simply, meant that they were fake. Because a "fake" is nothing more than a label that Others give. And She was never in a position to argue with Others, since Others were the majority, and She was Alone. That, and Others never listen, because, what's the point in listening to something about anything that is as unreal as the majority of Munchausen's adventures?
But to Her, they were real as like itself, even if, sooner or later they would disappear - since isn't that what happens to life?
And at the times when someone would come close enough to see what She has been saying to Herself -just see, not even hear, let alone process- She'd take one of Her notebooks, and begin writing so frantically about what's life to Her, and fake and non-existent to others, that Her giant "y"s and "g"s ended up taking up most of the pages. All in an attempt to seem more "normal", even though to Her, the only ones who were abnormal were the people who made Her sugar wings sugar free.
Here's a new drawing... Another try in PSCS.
I can't say I'm too proud of it D:
Spoiler for the inspiration:
A song by Oblivion Dust, Sinking.
The X-ray is on
They see through my mind
And I can hear you say stop
Their T.V. is wrong
My feelings are backwards
And I can hear you say stop
Why do I think I'm sinking?
Why do I think I'm losing?
I'm a beautiful girl you cannot solve
And I haven't figured out myself
A beautiful girl you cannot hold
You won't make the picture clear
You won't find a reason why
I'm here
It's taking too long
For you to detect me
I can still hear you say stop
Why do I think I'm sinking?
Why do I think I'm losing?
I'm a beautiful girl you cannot solve
It's time that I figure out myself
A beautiful girl you cannot hold
Getting hard to understand
The frequency is breaking up
Think I'm underneath her now
The walls are closing in on everything
Tied up in your body cables
Swimming in all your fluid motions
Baby lotion rubbed in my mind just one more time
Just one more time
Just one more time
You won't see through my mind any more
2006-06-18, 01:53
