7 rings

Chapter 13

"I never thought it would be the same. I was right. But when I was so sure thinking it would never get better I was very, very wrong."

Days and weeks had passed, and Mark Benson had already forgotten he had ever written this. No, it wasn't the same, but that never came to his mind, being lost somewhere in the past, somewhere far away, just like if it had never happened. Just like if it had never happened, like if all of the people involved have never been real.  Maybe he forgot it on purpose, maybe it faded away on its own, just like this, just like if it had never happened. The sun was coming up and the only sound disturbing the silence was the one of his fingers typing on the keyboard. Just like if nothing had ever happened. 

I never thought I would write again.

Mark didn't open an empty document and write for years, until a couple of weeks ago. He obviously had, but not to write fiction, not to write whatever came to his mind at the moment. There was something interesting about being able to invent completely inexistent people, completely fictional lives, but still, feel them just like if they were real. The sun was slowly coming up.

We all think too much. This makes no sense, life makes no sense, but it makes even less sense when we overthink it. Some people see too much sense in life, too, try to make the most out of it, have an insane amount of mundane goals and objectives and do just about anything to meet them, just like when it's all over, it will matter  what college you went to, what was your salary or the number of pages of your curriculum. It won't. I don't know how it will all end, but I am sure that the last thing I will think about will not be my average grade at highschool. If you only have these things to hold on to when there's nothing else, you won't be able to hold for very long. Not that I know what these things should be replaced by, but somehow I know they should.

Mark looked out of the window, at the city. It was the same as before, but now he wasn't bothered by it anymore. He could see it as he wanted to. He continued typing, seeing words being transformed into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, pages, the story of Rachel Caldwell starting to gain meaning. He didn't know what he would do with it, but that didn't matter. It was fine this way.

Beautiful. How much masks, invented by you, by others, will you ever have to wear? Katherine Norman, Rachel Caldwell... How much time will you ever hide behind who you want to be and others hide you behind who they see you as, not even understanding they do? How many times will other people replace you, like you shouldn't exist? And how many times will it be as beautiful as it is now, will it ever change?  When will it become so frequent even I will stop admiring its beauty, when will you lose yourself in these masks and won't be able to find the way out? So many questions I will never know the answer to. I did what I wanted to do, I brought you all together in a poetic, romantic, beautiful way, there, at the station. But I don't want to let you go, don't want to let you all go, I want to know what will happen next, without even having to make it happen, I want to see it unfold. This goes against any of the rules of the Play, that says we have no relationship with or responsibility for those we brought together for fun, whatsoever. Like if nothing had happened between us. Just like we are strangers. Just like you, Mark and Dominica who suddenly became strangers who don't know more about each other than their names, and even that is blurred in your memories. Will you ever meet again, will this continue on, meeting each other and running away, repeating, forever? Or will you, Dominica, actually never come back, will you never meet again? Just like if you had never even met.

What a beautiful day.