Rendezvous
09 February 13 : 04.44 PM
I went back to all those times when it shouldn't matter anymore. Those stories and words. Scrolled and scanned and scrutinised and found things that made my heart grip. It must still grip me because it mattered. I thought about the stories of another, how it wouldn't grip me this way, so therefore it must not matter.
There was a story I loved. A story about a boy, who had, when asked what he was thinking about, told a story of now-distant people. (The girl had listened attentively, taking in, not words, but voice and lilt and tenderness.) Then told of a story, of a vase and how its sole purpose was to cover up a blemish of sort on a table. So no, nobody would know it's there. (Oh, the silly girl never knew//asked why.) And nobody knew how the story of distance—a story to (keep) distance—was merely a vase, a screen, to cover up a blemish which is that the boy had already fallen in love with the girl. And that was what he was thinking about.
In writing, we discuss the idea of the unreliable narrator. The narrator whose words and credibility must always be doubted. I find I weave stories a lot more now. The narratives no longer hold. These dubious narratives that sound complete and fair, but you never get the sense that they are. But never intentional, oh no, never. Never the intention to mask truths and paint false pictures. But never trust the narrator who doesn't know better herself anymore.