Her Past and Make Up
February 25, 2014 § Leave a comment
“Why me?” she sighed, “Why is it always me? What did I do to deserve this?” She would blame herself for what has happened a decade ago, and fed her mind with negative thoughts until it overloaded, as sugar would saturate in a cup of hot tea. She loved the sight of makeup, and would run outside of her house, into her comfort zone, into a shop that sells makeup. She would never apply it, only buy it, perhaps she would do that to pressure her parents financially, but that was not the case. She was in love with the way it would cover people, hide their so-called “flaws”; she was in love with the idea of applying a line above the eye, making one look a whole lot ‘prettier’. She loved how it represented another person, another form of a person, a form which people would relish the site of. Despite that, she would not apply it, she would only keep it and apply it on others. She would see makeup stores as a place of a second-chance, because she could buy the eyeliner and mascara, and place it in her purse and walk anywhere in the city. Her comfort zone would be an arm’s reach away, and whenever she would feel afraid, or alone, she would take it out, apply it on others and watch their features change into someone else.
It fascinated her how people could change mentally after the applying of makeup, how they appeared confident and enthusiastic, how it is as though they had unlocked a boost in a video game ; “Confident level : 2 points bonus”. She is an observer, and kept her thoughts for herself, because she did not want anyone to know what she has done.
She remembered reading “You are not special. You were simply there when it happened, life did not look at you and say “Yes, you, I choose you. I choose despair upon you.” No. It is not like that”. It took her three days and nights to assimilate that into her mind. “You are not special”, a phrase that replayed in her head as she would repeat the thought of what happened that night, over and over and over. Her conclusion was, that really, we are not special, we are but species wandering on earth, around the universe, trying to make ourselves seem of any significance ; trying to understand the plants that do not speak loud enough for us to hear, the amphibians who we only watch crawl, the stars and the entirety of the world we live in.
She started to look at her surroundings, no, not look at them, but see them. She would see the people complain “Why me?” and she would think “It’s not you”, although she never admit that to herself. The thought of it started to crawl back from the depths of her mind, down to her throat, and lungs, into her heart. The thought clutched her heart, so tightly, that she could no longer speak, and found it difficult to breathe. So she ran to her comfort zone, she bought the lipstick, applied it this time. People told her that she looked like Rose from the ’97 movie, because her lips would turn red as the blood, her favourite colour, and her eyebrows bold, as her confidence would boost a +2.
She crossed the street to the beach, her second comfort zone, with the lipstick in her bag, and abruptly fell to the sand. She fell backwards, as though trusting that the shore will hold her and build a bed for her comfort; yet when people tell her to fall for them, she cannot. She trusts the grains of the sand as they are affixed to her wet feet, and the sound of the waves as they speak to her, and wind that kisses her neck. She trusts the nature, and not the people, because they can hug, but not so tightly, and they can speak, but not so sincerely, and they can kiss with wide eyes. The thought of humans startled her, so she would shut her eyes and trust the ocean, trust that which is the most true it can ever appear to be.
This is the entity of people, they clench onto objects, like makeup, and find comfort in them. They cling on to other people and depend on them for their own well-being, they do not trust themselves, yet they trust the ants, the people, and the streets. Although when they sit alone, with the company of their thoughts, they remember, and they do not find comfort in painting these memories, or writing or singing about them, or speaking of them. They keep them confined behind the bars in the jail cell that is their mind. She said she loved history yet did not read about it, and loved writing but did not pursue it. She did, however, appreciate old buildings. She loved absolutely everything about them, the faint colour of the paint, the cracks, the dust on the side track and the authenticity in them. She saw the history embodied in their very form, and wondered about the people who moved in and out, the date, how obsolete, and, merely everything. It was the nearest to the past she could reach, making her wonder if she could ever go back, and fix everything she has done a decade ago.