A Wrinkled Leaf

The sheets of empty canvas lay sprawled on the floor. She was not compelled to do anything as her thoughts were turned from bereavement to exhaustion. I fell for him. I loathe him. My life is misery. She had no more illusions. She had lost them in her travels. How must I demote myself to the tepid position of friends? How could I possibly drown myself in oblivion? Questions. They just transcend in the wind. Questions without answers. She cannot endure it, and so she flees, like a man bolting from his bed to escape nightmare. Finally she halts, somewhat calmed though hardly at peace, on a rise beyond the sanity she thought she ruled. Here, almost like a man in search for salvation, she gazes outside the glass house. How has it come to this? The answers swim up from the depths of her mind, like shimmering scenes painted on shards of glass: she was a wild child with moments of bitterness. Happiness had not come to her early in life. A thousand years of it would not have made her blasé. Her palate for all the joys of sense and care was unspoiled. Nothing would have been wasted on her. A noble hunger, long and unsatisfied met at last its proper food, and almost instantly the food was snatched away. Fate ( or whatever it is ) delights to produce a great capacity and then frustrate it. Now, she sits in her bedchamber, slowly scanning from one corner of the room to another, from the sea of her sanity to the shadowy jumble broken by the flicker of unclean light which has become her “destiny”. I fell for him. I loathe him. My life is misery. Need I say more?