Rozel journeys into the park - a world of both beauty and pain. Memories resurface, threatening to consume her. But she presses on, collecting stories that may heal her deeply wounded soul. Will this journey lead to healing and closure, or only deep...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"No... I am still here," it said.
But what is it? Is that a voice? Schizophrenia? Or is it just her tormented conscience refusing to let her be normal again? What is even normal? When was the last time she felt like a regular young woman?
How does a person know they are okay?
All these questions were rushing through her mind as she finally settled away from everyone. It all looked very poetic and artistic, the sky tinted with a bit of purple, pink, and orange combined with the soft blue as the sun was getting ready to fade for the day. The families with their kids were leaving, friends, couples, all were happy and laughing.
But "looked" is the keyword.
Starry Night is a masterpiece. It reflects Gogh's direct observations of his view of the countryside from his window, as well as the memories and emotions this view evoked in him. He put all that into a piece of art with his brush, and people go look at it and feel things. Some see it very 'fantasaful' and imagine fairies coming out of the sky to amaze children. Some see it as very calming and soothing while it describes the beauty and peace Gogh found in this world despite its chaos. And some others hate it or think it's overrated. It makes them feel dizzy or even feel stupid because they're unable to feel it or understand it.
What regroups those spectators together is that they did feel something, whether they loved it or hated it. It was still something, and that often happens because art often inspires these feelings within us, connecting past moments and new memories, or providing us with a look into the artist's vision.
But that wasn't Rozel's case. Looking at the scene in front of her, what she felt was... nothing. Completely disconnected. It does look like art, it is beautiful, and it certainly does have a meaning behind it, yet none of that reached her heart or deep sensations, like there was a transparent barrier between her and reality. She didn't get the artist's vision or plan.
Maybe she shivered a little bit, her cherry lips shook a little, and her skin got goosebumps when the after evening wind blew in her direction, making her frizzy hair fly around her, but that was it. That was all that connected her to the scene.
However, what she deeply knew was that the plot wasn't working.
This plot.
This whole thing.
Filming her project, somewhere in her brain believed she would get "inspired," that some random strangers would say something that would wake things up in her soul again, to make her feel again, to make her believe things can be okay, that there is, indeed, hope.
In fact, she tried to imagine, fantasize, or daydream, name it what you want, that she'd meet a guy who would tell a story that would be as devastating and messed up as hers, then something would just "click," then they'd go get some coffee, then he would crack a joke, then she'd laugh, then he'd compliment her and mention how cute she is when she covers her mouth while laughing, then she'd lower her eyes and blush, then maybe, just maybe, they'd go home together.
She tried to believe that, and for moments, she thought it was working, but it wasn't.
She can't remember the last time she really laughed, and no random, handsome, charismatic, man was going to change that any time soon.
The plot isn't working.
Maybe she smiled, maybe she joked, maybe she thought she made a friend, maybe she felt for them ... but eventually, she realized that nothing really changed...
The stories she recorded were other people's lives. They were their reality, their experiences, and their feelings.
Her reality wasn't similar. Her experience is one of a kind, and her feelings are... well... numb. She did a great job listening, conversing, and pretending. She was too good at it. But once they left, once she was left alone, nothing mattered . Nothing made sense once again.
Rozel is preparing to go home now, which regrettably will be empty, missing the loving embrace of parental figures, devoid of the warm reception of youthful passion, and, as she contemplates, lacking the presence of a divine being to whom she may seek solace. A domicile devoid of affection, a loveless abode.
She will get inside her dark apartment, she'll start editing, she will light a cigarette and listen to Édith Piaf, although she does regret things, many things.
Then what? She can submit her work and go to bed, or she can submit her work and open the window and jump out of it? Or maybe she can just jump out of the window right away with Édith Piaf in the background saying "Non, je ne regrette rien..." and it would be accurate because it's the one thing she wouldn't regret.
Or perhaps she can throw herself in front of a car before even getting home?
In a little bit better scenario, she'd finally call her therapist and ask for help. Maybe because she knows it's the right thing to do by logic, but she would have a hard time reviving her numb feelings that no longer believe in "help," especially after today, since it was a way of calling for help by trying to catch any hope in other people's stories.
Rozel was low-key trying to seek help from everyone else but herself. She'd rather end her life than give herself a chance to start again.
She knew it but never even confessed it.
Not a thousand hopeful stories, and not a million professional therapists would save her if she didn't let herself live again, nor if she never let herself feel again.
She felt nothing because she didn't let herself feel. If she tried, she'd feel guilt, regret, fear, bitterness, loneliness, disappointment, resentment, or basically, sadness and its synonyms.
She never even let herself cry, never let her tears free because that would be some sort of relief, and she believed she didn't deserve this freedom.
She is unforgiven because she is unforgiving.
Rozel finally got up and started walking home, dragging both people's feelings and her dead feelings along.
Eventually, she had decided to focus on the road ahead, and once she reached home, she would assess what the immediate future held for her. It was a start, perhaps, as she was trying to avoid getting run over by a bus.
