Sometimes it is quite nice to reflect, and when I chose to write a piece of Prose for the February Theme I didn’t expect it to be so deep, especially when I as the writer was feeling quite perky. It is surprising where pictures can take the writer.
Read on to hear the story of Evelyn:
Over on the horizon, I could see a couple taking photos of themselves, selfies they’re now called, so I recall. Selfies! An expression that would have once been stripped to nothingness, representative of the state of self, the ego, the vanity, the happiness. I can see it, they giggle and push each other side to side, like a tribal dance of the hog, or the dog. Captured in a bubble of serenity. They don’t know I can see them and I am angry at them. Why should they be happy? When I am not. Most of the time I ignore the feeling of being upside down and inside out. The feeling that I am neither on the surface of the water, nor below it. I am awash with calm, the waters may ripple but I stay firm in my position, unmoved. How dare they be happy. How dare they take selfies. Don’t they realise that the moment won’t last, and the photo will be a memory to be thrown away, torn in half or burned. I wish I could look into their eyes and watch their pupils, see into the darkness. Passion! What is this passion? Passion to care only for each other and themselves, so when it is over there is nothing. Nothing but the surface of the water, the droplets of rain, the lines around the eyes. The reflection of a deep wound that will never heal.
As they dance and mate upon the surface of the land, I can see that there are clouds forming in the sky, even nature doesn’t want to see them happy. Nature knows that they will drop their litter and leave it for the water to wash away, and then my life’s purpose will begin, when I collect their rubbish and pick up the pieces of their selfish loving and declutter and remove their being from the landscape. How dare they be happy. Why should they be happy? They’re only happy because the are in the illusive world of fantasy, when their personal wellbeing is catered for, where they can drop litter and know it will be collected because someone else cares. They don’t have to care, because I care for them.
It’s me that picks up their trail of selfishness as they are lost in their abyss of youth. It is me who will recall the moments of their happiness when their lives no longer connect. It is me that stands and stares at them over the lake, knowing that they might be able to see me. Maybe they see me and that is why they act so happy, using me as their audience. Isn’t everything just for show, little do they realise that the sea is with the lake and the sea is lost to clear water, the sea is a place for the lake to drift toward, the lake is a place of longing.
They see me. Now is the time to take out my bubble-mania bottle and blow bubbles across the lake to them, they will see me and think. Look at that happy lady, without a care in the world, blowing bubbles into nowhere because she can. Look at her clothes and how she looks so tired, but she carries on, bag in hand, cleaning the bank side, because she can. She has the time.
They won’t think, look at that lady, how nuts. Blowing Bubbles to nowhere because misery consumes, and she has time on her hands because her husband has died and she will never know happiness again.