never have gone to the library on campus that day, if I had known that to date
ravens would be less painful, and that my long cherished silence of maybe a few
months sticking to only myself and one else would be broken by hot, tangible
dreams strangely alike those of a fourteen year old pricking herself with
needles only to feel something real, something as strange as the heavy loaded
emotion within her chest.
another life, I was once a terribly stricken romantic poet who tried to shower
the world with her ill word phased longings. But in this world, I was no more
fuelled by sweet love as I was fuelled by distasteful emotional writing. I
didn’t want to. Hopes of slipping from all the labels brought to surface and
pinned to unfortunate souls makes me sometimes trip over myself in a very
overly done and contradicting manner.
It was a
very unfortunate evening as I walked towards the main library, only wanting to
hand back some books, as unfortunately also the semester was yearning for an
end. Though to me it meant only more work in less time. And it was all that was
on my mind.
remember which day in the week this was, and I don’t remember the weather. Nor
do I recall how many people were still working in the library, and I can’t for
the life of me remember which librarians where there then, though I usually
can. What happened in the instance when I walked through the door and gazed
over the work space with all its desks wiped my mind clear and clean of
anything important. I did hand in my books, and I did wonder what to do with myself,
how to spend the time until they closed. But more I asked myself what I had
just seen, what was that creature so strange beckoning to his computer, working
away idly at something I could not see, who was this person who had caught my
eye as I came striding past him. Later on, after telling everyone who cared to
listen, I would keep claiming him to be someone I had seen somewhere else,
someone I was going to contact, and someone...someone. Only believing my own
lie for a split second.
has wiped what else was left before they closed. It has wiped how I followed
him down to the metro, waiting to see which train he would get on at, realizing
it was the same as mine, knowing that he’d sit somewhere behind me and
wondering in amazement as he got off at the same station as I always do, but
then walked off into another direction. But my heart will have blotched stains
of how I trailed after on safe distance, away from the metro, pretending to do
something else, seeing him vanishing in the horizon and then wandering off on
my own without meaning. Incidentally, after having crossed a few blocks he’d
come back into my view and my feet taking command over my body, following where
he had walked. It was not just a safe distance to stalk his so very fine ass,
but also to remain unnoticed and guarded. Streets were safely lined, open,
stretching far. Every time I lost him, I turned another block and he came back
into view. His back straight, with earphones on, and going at a fast pace.
how he had not taken an obvious short cut, and how he kept trudging on, ever
further. By now, I was way off my own road, walking past streets unknown to me.
Finally, as he was almost beyond my vision, and cars were preventing me from
seeing much, he vanished into thin air. I would upon reaching the crossing note
that he could not have walked to the right, but on my left there were so many
options. And he was nowhere.
object of fixation had now left me, I paced my time through older parts of
town, past an enormous white building with the similarity of a small villa. I
saw patches of forest, well worn little short cuts and everywhere the sweet
signs of people and their families, where clothing would hang on lines and
window sills were burdened with trinkets. There were small reddish houses,
smeared and tainted signs from fast food stalls. I knew for sure I was lost in
a strange world somewhere near my own, where I had never been before, and as
soon as I knew I stood by another crossing, next to where my bus passes on the
way to my apartment. I turned around, slightly, wondering if the other world,
so new and wild, would vanish before my eyes as Narnia in the closet, but it
remained vibrant. Joy overcame me with salient satisfaction.
day, I saw the library boy again a few more times. He would work all the way
into evening, and then he would get up and leave, though he would no longer get
off at my station. I would wonder silently if he had uncovered me, undone my
little stalking tendencies, but paranoia as my second nature was to scapegoat
for this notion.
vividly most of all sitting at the front desk and staring out into the air,
thinking haughtily of him, and straining my impressions to paper in a series of
wonderful lines and curls, becoming a strange drawn being. And it was there and
then that I noticed someone fixing their gaze on me and in he comes, around the
corner, staring at me. How many steps did he indeed take, in those few glimpses
from when I turned my eyes to his and from when I could no longer hold that
intense gaze, and abruptly lowered my head? Another unspoken question.
Maybe I saw
him 4 times. Maybe not. On the last Saturday, I had formed a plan to sneak a
little note to his desk of choice, and run off as he’d read it. It would let
him know that I thought him fine, and not just his behind. As is the thing with
me, I had drawn him something, dragons, curls and lines of perfection.
Saturday, I could not find him. Though as the day ended, he did turn up and
left the building. He did not take the metro, and I tried to follow him a
little, from far off. Then he vanished into another unseen nook where there
should have been none.
lastly, on the Monday after, I saw him once as he entered the library and soon
left again. At some point during the week, I pondered his mere existence. All
my little ways and tricks would have needed him to be real to work, to be
around. But he was no longer to be found.
I was stuck
questioning why he had struck me so. Seeing so obvious how he’d come up next to
me and on, the little silly adornment to his backpack, a cartoon skull. He had
been dressed all in black, but reserved, with short black hair. There had been
no feathers and ruffles, no velvet and boots, no painted nails or makeup. He
had looked distinctively distant and cold, but not mean. In the strangest way,
his face had seemed kind. But nothing made him stand out.
was gone for good and I was left back there with a note missing its recipient,
I would sit for hours with my books, sometimes watching people go about their
wait for him to approach, for his gaze to settle on me again.
But I never did hear the rattling chains again,
because, of course, he did have such.