The light was soft in this corner, the harsh sun filtered through the gentle green creepers that crowded around the window as if trying to get closer to her. Barred by the iron grill, they peeped in nonetheless, nodding approval each time the wind sang and breezed its way past them to gently touch the tendrils of soft hair that had come loose through the morning. She did not notice the breeze that played with her hair. Ignored, it gave up. Only to come back as if irresistibly drawn. Each rejection sent it sulking into a corner, immobilised by her cold indifference. Then again, something stirred, and it went a’calling again, winding itself around her, waiting for her to notice.
Her eyes were lowered, intent on the book on the table. She sat in a straight backed chair facing the open window, seeing nothing. If she raised her eyes, it was only in deep thought. Her eyes saw nothing of the outside, they were far too busy with the world she was creating within her. Her black ink pen flew fast over the paper, the words tumbling out impatiently, finding shape, and meaning and reason. It was as if they had been trapped too long and it was time to come out and play. Some played truant, running out in reckless abandon, only to be forever imprisoned in the sharp horizontal strokes of the pen. Curly lines meandering purposefully, all coursing through as if a young river. She wrote in confident strokes, her story was telling itself. In that tiny room, constrained by the bars on the window, her story was free to escape.
Her eyes were large and grey, limpid pools as if blank of emotion. Eyebrows a gentle arch, as if containing a temper that rose with her will and fell with her wants. She wrote for hours while there was light, her lips quivering along with the twists in the story. There were days when they settled into a gentle smile at the end of the day. But there were other days when they were silent, straight, slightly pulled down at the corners. The story she wrote was not always happy, though she knew that most wanted it so. Everyday she strove towards happiness, holding it off then, and again. Because happiness would mean the ending. There can be no story after happiness. It reeks of failure to have found happiness and then lost it. Of a carelessness that can only be beneath one. To let oneself down in a way that one could not bear to meet oneself again. Who wants to befriend the callous? No, happiness was best saved up, a promise, like that pot at the edge of a rainbow. Even if you were sitting on it, it is the rainbow that would always be more special.
So she wrote, everyday. She wrote of a world where there were many twists in the road, so many that no one could tell whether it led to the town or to the woods. It depends on which way you look at it, they said. You could be going here, and then again, you could be there. She wrote, finding her way through the maze till she saw that every choice looked very much the same, and however much she tried, she would always be where she was – between the town and the edge. She wrote everyday, and all day, till her stories went around in circles. And then she looked up. A shiver would go through the leaves on the creeper outside her window as she looked at them with her clear, all seeing eyes. She wondered at the wind that came from far, the gentle breeze that stroked the leaves and caressed her weary brow. How she wished she knew it better, this wind that wrapped itself around her.