ms. woodsthorn
.--. .---. .-. .---|--| .-. | A | .---. |~| .--. .--|===|Ch|---|_|--.__| S |--|:::| |~|-==-|==|---. |%%|NT2|oc|===| |~~|%%| C |--| |_|~|CATS| |___|-. | | |ah|===| |==| | I | |:::|=| | |GB|---|=| | | |ol| |_|__| | I |__| | | | | |___| | |~~|===|--|===|~|~~|%%|~~~|--|:::|=|~|----|==|---|=| ^--^---'--^---^-^--^--^---'--^---^-^-^-==-^--^---^-'
12th of May, 2024 | 12.05.2024 | unavailable on medium
[Sketch bust portrait of unidentified woman with an earring]
There was a patch of grass near the old house, she noted, walking past. The bars of the metal fence stood out against the greenery. It quivered – the grass – ready to jump out and swallow her whole. She had never loved the green grass as much as she did then. To the left – what was that? – a broken sidewalk, debris pouring out onto the road. Silence. How quiet the world stood at times – cabs and cars still, far away – the roar not reaching her. How silent the world ran at times. Pace slow. She didn't even hear her light steps on the pavement; the Sun blazed; how small, she thought, how tiny the people were on the other side of the street. And how bright – too bright! – the Sun was, she noted. Too bright!
She had fallen in love with life a long time ago. Was it June? She couldn't remember. Maybe it was last Autumn when she looked at the cars and clouds and people walking by. Not noticing her. That was the first time she had fallen in love with the world.
Her senses, however strong she might have been, however weak, had dulled since then. It was only now that she remembered the feeling. Looking at the empty road and the sunny sidewalk – so many people! so bright! – and the trees.
But it was gone now. The feeling that had washed over her – like a blanket, a wave, a rush – was gone now. The patch of grass behind her forgotten. She moved on and the cars returned and the silence was broken into a million pieces. She didn't love the grass anymore. But she would remember this moment; the love had died in her heart, but it would live in her memory. She smiled.
She wasn't quite quick enough at the traffic lights and had to wait for the green again. There were cars, buses. A dusty orange construction lorry was turning around the corner. She saw an elderly woman near her taking a step. She should do the same, she thought, or the dust might get on her. What did she think? How did she – the lorry went by, dust fluttering in the Sun – look? Cold wind tugged at her bag.
There lay a shadow, over there! look! so deep. What if she fell in? It was a painting, was it not? How could something be so real; it was a blot in reality; a happening. Predator waiting for her to take a wrong step. At moments like these life pushed at the smooth canvas of her mind and she could see it curve and bend and twist. Mundane turned into reality; she would remember it. She would remember this moment.
It was green and she walked. How? Did they watch? She'd need to ask for paper, – there, the end of the crossing – did she take a pen with her? She must ask for paper, certainly. Crossing the road and stepping on the sidewalk. Past her rode a bicyclist. She always feared them; she'd freeze up and not know where to walk. To the right? To the left? She'd feel their stares, judgement. How it broke her heart. How she wanted to cry. When was the last time she did?
There were people – young men. Did that one look at her? Her step faltered and a strand of hair fell on her face. She looked down on the pavement. She wasn't a woman, a thought crossed her mind – she felt a jab. Was her walk feminine? Of course not. You can't walk femininely, can you? No. She cursed herself, breathless. She took a wrong turn. The sidewalk ended and opened to an asphalt parking lot. The wind tugged at her bag again – a hungry beast – and it fell off her shoulder. She always felt embarrassment – the moment she was born, it felt. That time she nearly walked under a car; it wasn't fear she felt, but embarrassment.
Why was she this way? A car was turning – slow. Careful. Should she go now? She tried and stopped and the car went by her now. Another one. She crossed and sighed when she stepped on the pavement. Never had she liked cars. It was not fear she felt towards them – she must write this down! ask for paper! – rather it was embarrassment. And it made her cry.
[Sketch bust portrait of unidentified woman with an earring] was used as the header photograph here. No known restrictions. The photograph was found on the Library of Congress.
ways to contact me
if you want to message me, feel free to do so through letterbird.co