There was a woman I once knew. Her name was Cecilia. I loved her very much, or I was very much in awe of her. She stood on the corner of my street as a kid. I know I was just a kid, but I remember feeling distinctly attracted to her. She wore a long thick coat. Faux fur. Black. She had her hair in a bob. She kind of just stared out across the street. From one corner to the other. I knew as a child that she was odd. That there was something wrong about her. A woman in her thirties who just stood and stared. She was wrong. Very young, you gain perceptions of these things. You learn what is right and what is wrong. It’s part of survival. You have to know what is good and normal and what is unpredictable and dangerous. She fell into the latter category.
Yes, this woman, Cecilia, had no business standing on the corner of my street staring at nothing in particular. She was wrong. But on some days, she’d stand for hours. I thought that if she twirled a sign, she wouldn’t be so out of place. But, I couldn’t picture her doing anything other than standing rigidly in her coat with her hands in her pocket. She was kind of magnificent.
And now she’s gone. Faded into the stream of people in my life who pass me by without a single word. I never spoke to her. I never even walked by her, really. My parents regarded her carefully. And now I think about all these people who we just touch for a fraction of a second, if that, in our lives before they slip by never to be seen again.
But, increasingly, I realize that for most people, I probably am the person that fades away without making an impact. I’m probably the fleeting face. The tenuous touch of fingertips. A second of eye contact. And then nothing, I’m gone. Never have I known one person for more than a few years. From one year to the next, I carry no one with me. I talk to few people and I talk to even fewer more than once.
And so, with this in mind, I decide that I’m sick of this life. Of this sort of passing from person to person and never making an impact. So, I have two options. Latch onto someone or drown. One is easier than the other.
And so. I choose the latter. As I always have.
But to step out of my metaphorical river of floating, screaming faces and arms flailing for a second, let’s look at the real world. This is all dark. I am not drowning in a sea of writhing human bodies. Twisting and crying for help. That is not my life. I wake up every morning and I walk to school. Sometimes it is cold and sometimes it is nice. When I’m at school, I talk to people who I don’t care much about in the morning. Sometimes they make me laugh and sometimes they do not. Then I sit through some classes and stare at my teachers. Sometimes I find these things they say interesting, but more often I do not. So I draw in my notebook. Sometimes I draw something beautiful, but more often than not I just waste time.
Those are my days. And I feel little fulfillment in all that I do. And I feel that I don’t add anything to group discussions in class nor do I bring anything to the table worthwhile as far as life goes.
I’m sorry. My story is the fact that I have none to tell. Because I am insignificant. Because I have done nothing to further the human race along in its quest for whatever it’s trying to do. I don’t even know. If you can find happiness, good for you. But I think I’ll just sit in dejected silence and watch.
There was one person I helped. Or I think I did. I took her into my home, or my mom did. We slept in the same bed. Just lay there. Sometimes, she’d reach across the bed and take my hand in hers. That’s really all. But, when her family did take her back, she thanked me. And she wrapped her arms around my neck and sobbed and I told her I loved her. And I don’t feel like going into this. There is more. Maybe I’ll tell you later. But I probably will not.
But she’s gone now. Since we hugged and she sobbed, I texted her a few times. We chatted for a bit, but I haven’t seen her since.
And that’s all there is. I’m sorry.
