192: Firsts [written Wednesday 11 May 2016]
I’ve been too busy to write. Assessments and whatnot. Sorry, dear.
A little girl of seventeen years of age sits in a desolate classroom with the sweet whispers of the wind faintly calling to her as she sits with a mixed taste of ashes and oranges in her mouth. The tangy orange sits on the carpet of her tongue, but she holds a wad of ash in the cavity of her mouth. A bitter disappointment, a bittersweet loneliness, a sour envy. The only source of disquiet is her own thoughts, disturbingly negative, borderline suicidal.
She has grown out of that phase, the early, confused teenage years allowed for teens to discover themselves. It is not her time to go. She thinks frequently (at night) of the time she goes (or forces herself to go). She thinks of the people she will leave behind, the writing she will abandon, the memories she will erase, the emptiness of her bedroom, her families’ lives. She thinks of her unfulfilled dreams, wishes, accomplishments. The worst favour she could do herself would be to leave at such an untimely stage in her life. A list of firsts she hasn’t really crossed off. In no particular order: the first book, the first kiss, the first boyfriend, the first taste of coffee, the first full marks on an exam, the first love confession, the first apartment, the first time being away from home indefinitely, the first child of her own, the first university degree, and so many more firsts. At this rate, it would be impossible, always an inopportune time to seek the afterlife, or lack thereof.
But she doesn’t really think of leaving that much, not really. Only when she’s alone, when the only person she can talk to and let her personal thoughts be known to, … is herself. Of course, however, there will be some things that a girl not unlike herself will even keep things a secret from the very person she is (i.e. she will keep secrets from herself). The subconscious, others call it. Two years of philosophy are lost on her; so are two years of French, her junior years, awkward conversations and interactions with people who are not like her. They are all lost on her. She is a lost soul. She will only write short stories, poems, letters to no one in particular when she has the time or when a mountainous pile of academia is beckoning to her with their menacing blank expressions. She sighs when she thinks of the eight or more exercises she is behind on. But then she thinks of writing a letter to her future husband, whoever he might be (or not be). Her palms shake when she thinks of who he could be, of the words she might say in the letter. What shall she say to him? For a while she forgets about who she is now and thinks of who she wants to be and how she will be like when she meets her future husband, perhaps at university. For a while she abandons all her responsibilities and passively takes on the responsibilities of the future. She wants to be that lady, the woman who finds her future husband at university and then before she’s twenty-eight she’ll be happily married, and she’ll be that lady who has children she loves and a man she’ll love and she’ll have the career she has always dreamed of (none of that corporate ladder climbing) and…
When she thinks of these things, she bursts out in laughter mid-thought. She knows she is being absurdly ridiculous, yet she continues to think in this way, hoping for a miracle (?). No, not hoping for a miracle. Maybe she enjoys the thrum of her heartstrings as she allows herself to fantasise. To be honest, it’s all a joke to her. Her mother unknowingly set it up for her, set up by the society, it is the way they want it. But then, if this is not what she really wants, what is? She doesn’t know. She has illegitimate, illegal thoughts, desires, impossibilities. She never talks about them.
The little girl runs away to write a letter.