She sits there writing in her battered journal, oblivious to the shrieks from her noisy age mates playing yet another game conjured in the heat of the moment. She shouldn’t even be there but submitting to her papa’s whims is much easier than another fiery argument. So she creates her own little bubble where her fantasies come alive, where the little characters she dreams up run around; sometimes floating lightly, other times stamping angry feet impatiently waiting for their stories to be written. She indulges them, sweet talks them, spoils them – anything so they can love her as much as she loves them. And she writes.
He watches her from across the room, wondering why she’s here since it’s obvious she doesn’t want to be. He sees her every day, sometimes in the park, sometimes like today in the youth auditorium. Lately, she stays with him in his head, becoming a constant distraction, an obsession even. He sits there, watching her, wondering why there’s so much sadness in her eyes. And then he rises and goes to her.
Pause
We’ve all seen this scene played out a dozen times; mystery dude to the rescue, knight in shining armour or whatever and the unsurprisingly saccharine happy ending usually involving a castle, eternal love and a ‘happily ever after’ to boot. This is not one of those tales. In this story, there are broken hearts, very sad tears and the big climax that I find constanly missing in all folklore – the moment the boredom sets in. So let’s say we skip the tedious details. Boy meets girl, instant chemistry…… blah, blah, blah.
Play
One year and counting and the knight realises that his damsel is addicted to her distress, that she can’t actually be without the perpetual sessions of brooding, that the little bubble world of hers he found oh so curiously appealing is in fact impenetrable to him as to the rest of the world. Then what? How long can that love wait pleadingly at her door, urging her to open and let him in? And when the door is eventually open how long can he stand to hear stories of her pain? Pain he feels she is strong enough to bear, the hurt he feels she should have out grown, the constant throbbing that eclipses any semblance of pleasure making even the slightest inclination to smile so outlawed that it might as well be the sacrifice of young virgins on alters of pagan gods.
Then, the very same pain that made her so arrestingly vulnerable, damns her to heartbreak because despair is something we can’t stand to be around. We loathe irrevocable hopelessness in our own different ways. For some it’s the outpouring of sympathy which if directed at them would kill every bone of pride in their bodies, for others it’s the pure and perfect hatred of weakness, and for others it’s complete desertion. Any way it plays out, the only sob stories we stand around for or perhaps even enjoy are those that last up until the part right before we get bored. Now that’s where the drama lies……
He watches her from across the room, wondering why she’s here since it’s obvious she doesn’t want to be. He sees her every day, sometimes in the park, sometimes like today in the youth auditorium. Lately, she stays with him in his head, becoming a constant distraction, an obsession even. He sits there, watching her, wondering why there’s so much sadness in her eyes. And then he rises and goes to her.
Pause
We’ve all seen this scene played out a dozen times; mystery dude to the rescue, knight in shining armour or whatever and the unsurprisingly saccharine happy ending usually involving a castle, eternal love and a ‘happily ever after’ to boot. This is not one of those tales. In this story, there are broken hearts, very sad tears and the big climax that I find constanly missing in all folklore – the moment the boredom sets in. So let’s say we skip the tedious details. Boy meets girl, instant chemistry…… blah, blah, blah.
Play
One year and counting and the knight realises that his damsel is addicted to her distress, that she can’t actually be without the perpetual sessions of brooding, that the little bubble world of hers he found oh so curiously appealing is in fact impenetrable to him as to the rest of the world. Then what? How long can that love wait pleadingly at her door, urging her to open and let him in? And when the door is eventually open how long can he stand to hear stories of her pain? Pain he feels she is strong enough to bear, the hurt he feels she should have out grown, the constant throbbing that eclipses any semblance of pleasure making even the slightest inclination to smile so outlawed that it might as well be the sacrifice of young virgins on alters of pagan gods.
Then, the very same pain that made her so arrestingly vulnerable, damns her to heartbreak because despair is something we can’t stand to be around. We loathe irrevocable hopelessness in our own different ways. For some it’s the outpouring of sympathy which if directed at them would kill every bone of pride in their bodies, for others it’s the pure and perfect hatred of weakness, and for others it’s complete desertion. Any way it plays out, the only sob stories we stand around for or perhaps even enjoy are those that last up until the part right before we get bored. Now that’s where the drama lies……
Imagine if Cinderella, twenty years into her ever after woke up haunted by the memories of her teenage years, or Rapunzel remained forever a prisoner in her heart even after her prince hearing her ethereal voice saved her from her tower. How long would the pretty memories last? How long before these princes start to prefer patterns of normalcy to colourful outlandish tales? How long before they just walk away?
11 comments:
There are several layers of a cocoon that despair and heartbreak can spin around our fragile hearts creating an impenetrable shell, but I know that time and devotion can peel away those layers one by one, although it may take a lifetime. Okay am outta here with my love conquers all bullshit....good post....again.
There is no 'Ever After.' Only dreams, only could-be's.
"...despair is something we can’t stand to be around. We loathe irrevocable hopelessness in our own different ways. For some it’s the outpouring of sympathy which if directed at them would kill every bone of pride in their bodies, for others it’s the pure and perfect hatred of weakness, and for others it’s complete desertion. Any way it plays out, the only sob stories we stand around for or perhaps even enjoy are those that last up until the part right before we get bored. "
True 'dat!
Oi! I love what you've done with the place! :)
lovely look...deep,sometimes unsettling images...
"For some it’s the outpouring of sympathy which if directed at them would kill every bone of pride in their bodies, for others it’s the pure and perfect hatred of weakness, and for others it’s complete desertion."..i am wit princess; so so true. You write so beautifully,even on the grim stuff
and i think u are a thinker...deep deep thinker
sometimes the miasma of degeneration encirlces your despair creating a vortex of completion that is as light as a feather settling on the essence of nirvana that tintinnabulates to the core of your being...
seriously people...
tsup girl, call me sometime. you have the number.
and post something, your children are in need of nourishment.
i am tired of bouncing, i am not coming back here again i swear.
You should have asked for her number, and not offered yours. Now look at you, all desperate. :)
If they get like really bad gangsta-wannabe kids they will not be bored.
This reminded me of this
why i keep coming back here is entirely beyond me.
@ princess, thanks for the advice, and the smiley, though as my uncle eliah always says, you cannot teach your mother how to give birth.
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