charmolipi: a short story collection.

The Mind is Never to be Trusted

Mother,

            I will address you as mother. These letters have no destination, just as I do. I hope you do not mind. You will not.

These letters will not seem like letters. The woman gave me the book, and I chose to write in it. I will tell you what I have observed, although my memories like to trick me. You have to accept all inconsistencies written as truths, or you will not rest.

It was at the crack of dawn when I found myself surrounded by things I did not recognize. I knew something was wrong with me, you see. And so, I set out to get help. I didn't want to burden anyone and ask them to lead me somewhere, but alas, that hesitance to ask assistance led me to be in the middle of a place I do not know.

There were two large trees in front of me. They looked like they wanted me to choose between them. I did not. I merely stared.

I wandered around the place in my large shoes and white lace dress that the person who once took care of me was kind enough to give. Borrow. I do not remember. I cherished the dress, but the shoes I despised. They never fit, and I grew to hate the way I walked in those shoes.

I stomped on the leaves to fill the silence. I laughed when someone stomped back.

A woman appeared out of nowhere. I was puzzled by it, but did not question her. My eyes liked to deceive me and I was called a number of names because of the things I thought I saw.

The woman, wearing a white lace dress like mine, greeted me with a smile that did not seem quite right. She called me "dear", and held my hand like she was doing it everytime someone ended up here.

I did not question. I never question. I follow.

There were people, all quiet and sullen. Their eyes were tired of the world, but mother, they were most definitely alive.

I looked into their eyes, one after another and none of them looked at me. Like I did with the trees, they were content with staring. I pretended not to notice all the things I noticed, because perhaps if I did, they would also notice what I did not want them to.

"Is this where I get help, madame?" I asked. Mother, you would've been proud of me for speaking up.

The woman smiled. "Yes."

Her voice scraped my skin like a knife to be sharpened. It wasn't pleasant. But then again, my voice was told to be a disgrace too.

Oh no. Mother, you wouldn't have been proud of me for speaking up.

I spent days, months, or even years in there. The woman liked me, although I never liked her. She spent time with me, read to me, and took care of me, far better than anyone else have done. The people, the people so quiet and sullen, were great company. Never loud. Just staring.

Time did not exist. The two trees kept urging me to choose. The woman spent time. The people stared.

My shoes fit me. My dress did not. I hated the shoes. I hated the dress.

How long has it been? Will I ever get out? It was a utopia within a dystopia within a utopia. I liked it here. I hated the place.

The woman gave me a knife, to defend myself she said. I laughed. Defend from who? I was the outsider, the one to be wary of. Nevertheless, I kept the knife.

The walls seemed so empty. The people did not stare. Time existed and did not move.

The woman did not spend time anymore. The woman did not read nor take care of me.

The woman was gone.

The people were gone.

I have become the woman. And the people. And the walls.

I was everyone and no one at the same time.

I now know why the trees wanted me to choose. I now realize why the people were so sullen. I now understand why I gave myself a knife.

 

Pray tell, mother. Did you enjoy watching me go insane?