Even if Love is also Lonely

Through Her Eyes

Her mind is silent. The dark corners of her mind runs a treadmill even if her mouth is silent. Stars don't flicker in her eyes blindingly, but the smile on her face isn't dead or forced.

This is all, but a dream is what I think sometimes. Like the stars that blanket the night sky and disappear as fast as the dark breaks when the morning ashes fall back into piece, I've seen her whole story run through my head before the end comes to light.

I see it all.

I've seen it all.

The story is not my norm. I've heard of it before; dedication, that is. I've never done nor have those around me gone as far as to give themselves up for another existence. It's foolish, naïve, and a lonely solo act.

But she did it, she's done it, and I hope no one else does it the same way. Because it's crazy.

I met Namjoo at the White House. No, not where the president of the United States works. The White House is a name I use for South Korea's mental institute. Namjoo wasn't an employee, a visitor, or a relative of a patient.

Namjoo was the patient. I was her part time nurse.

Her mind was full of blocks of life, too many blocks of life. Reading into it hurt me.

There were daily scribbles in her journal. She worked with proses, poetry, and creative writing. She was a really smart person, seemed too normal and steady like a stranger to be passed by on the street, and yet I wasn't able to comprehend why she was getting treated. It was all a wonder to me.

A few friends would drop by sometimes and so did her family, but she never did smile wholeheartedly. She seemed timid, held back, and would bow her head down in front of them as if there was a boundary she was unable to cross when with them. In a part it looked saddening.

On sunny days when I accompanied her outside she would gaze across land of trees that guarded the institute from city life. When I looked at her she gave off the appearance of a waiting lover. Droning with patience her hands would stay clasped and her legs poised together. Teasing her lips would be that tiny smile quick to grow broad if who she was waiting for finally appeared.

But he never did.

Yet she never seem to stop waiting.

Namjoo was often silent like a beat dog whose tail never wagged; eyes always somewhat downcast. It would feel like I knew she was in front of me, but I couldn't touch her, like she would break if my fingertips stroked a strand of her hair. A soul-less reflection was she. As if her heart wasn't there and she never rested.

There was life in her eyes that created the echo of another world for her. Flowers sprouted where they didn't grow. There would be dirt at her feet, but she'd see colors emanating from it. This second dimension existed to her as strongly as this world did to me.

The difference between us was, Namjoo kept falling in her shallow hole.

Like bit by the fangs of pain her heart bled a lot. They bled the tears her eyes didn't show. Namjoo was like a bird kept safe in a cage slowly wanting out. The yellow light seeping through the crack of the door would call to her, but she couldn't reach it. Her feet would become wedged stones too heavy for her body to fly with.

Her innocence would cower in the shadows of the room and she had tendencies to explore the nights that had gotten too long. She never did leave her room though.

Thoughts of rebellion mischievously struck her mind at certain hours, but she was like a goldfish quick to forget. From certain perspectives, Namjoo was a child at heart. Through another eye, she was a woman made ready for the world.