#Short Story: Spirals & Circles

She almost heard his voice. Almost noticed his words. Only if she could concentrate just a little more. But that was impossibly challenging. His eyes were all she could focus on, until they grew more distorted with each instant. She couldn’t pull together the picture. She couldn’t remember where they were. She knew it was happening, but there was a more commanding sensation captivating her consciousness. She knew she should be hearing his voice, memorizing his words. Her eyes were wide open, but she couldn’t see him any longer. She saw a formless ghost imitating someone or something familiar.

Sometimes, she forced herself to pay attention. With a nervous effort she would casually reposition herself a little, close her eyes for a few seconds, shake her head to clear the misleading illusions, and really try to awaken. All
in vain. This emotion was more powerful than the significance of the moment-this rendezvous she had played in her head for times and times again. It was like a never-ending déjà vu. She did feel safe, disappointedly relieved that she is not missing out on much. Yet the feeling of self-consciousness overwhelmed her into panic. Why was this happening now? She was totally prepared to talk back to him. She had studied all the varieties of things he would say. She did discover what to fill in the gaps of his questions, and how to turn them into answers, without answering much herself.

So, he must be thinking that she is dumb. Or perhaps, he might be assuming that she did feel guilty and rightfully accused. Or, just maybe, he might be deeming that she didn’t really care and doesn’t give a damn to what had happened. Or just probably, it didn’t show what was going on inside of her. Maybe she looked normal to him. So many questions and so many possible answers. But anyways, she knew whatever track his judgment is driving him is surely the wrong way. They never really understood her. No one really had. She had always felt this way, alone in a desolate island. But on irregular occasions, when few ships would pass by, she would try all the possible tricks to alert them, to signal them, to be saved. But no ship would be truly aware. They did notice her, but simply ignored her.

“It doesn’t matter”, she would finally decide. She did love this
isolation, the feverish sun, the independent blue ocean, the uncivilised beach, and the immortal yellow snow. She did appreciate it tremendously. It has been always and forever a better option rather than being misplaced in the big tainted city. The metropolis polluted with lies, deception, hypocrisy and misleading double standards. She was aware that everyone has made a great contribution for love, by making a sin of it. But nevertheless, deep within, she knew her reality was also a chimera. That is why she sometimes missed the noise, missed the traffic and above all, missed others’ mirages. On rare, passing segments, she knew she was the wisest. And because of this wisdom, she also knew that “wisest was she who knew she did not know”. That is why, on those brief moments, she was an insane philosopher.

Yes, it was a contradicting mathematical equation. And she loved it. She loved that horrible pressuring chaos so damn much. Just as she loved him, the man who fluently filled and fitted into the gaps. She loved him for more than a thousand reasons, in more than a thousand ways. But if asked why, she wouldn’t know what to reply. She loved him unconsciously, illogically, without reason. Oh how she suddenly missed him. She tried to evoke his hair, his eyes, his loving mouth, his confusing voice, which filled her with delicate relief.

Finally she saw him. Realizing he had not disappeared or reappeared.
She smiled and said,
“I appreciate your existence more when I think of you, rather than when I see, hear, touch, or feel you, Babe…”

Notes:

I do not know if these insane, sudden, attacking mental trips happen to others, especially in critical situations. In the story, the girl is unwillingly crawling away from reality. Even though she came totally prepared, she ended up in a trance before she even had the chance to begin. She is pondering about everything except what is really going on.

The theme is a portrayal of what goes around, comes around. No matter how far she is pulled away from reality, gradually and unnoticingly she eventually finds herself confronting it, just like a writer starting off with an idea but ends up with another, and once done, becomes amazed at how it all made perfect sense at the end.
Reflecting the conflict within the protagonist, I ended the story with one simple statement showing her departure from reality and her dwelling inside her imagination. She supposed her words to be a compliment to him, while they are really not more than an insult and humiliation to his existence.

In other words, she says that she would rather be left alone with his perfected image than being in the company of his Real, which does not comply with her satisfactions.

We are never content with our lives, with the Real. We hunt for our possessions and desires universally. That is the reason of our dreams, be it by day or night. We unconsciously accept the fact of never fulfilling our aspirations. Sometimes, we are trapped inside these fantasies. This is when reality becomes imagination, and imagination- the reality. We build and dwell in our private and secretive ivory towers. In psychological terms this is labeled as schizophrenia. But what is bewildering is the fact that we all might be schizophrenics in the end.