Forgotten
Naomi still remains a mystery. However, what I imagine to be her tragic tale strikes a deep resounding note in me. I dream of her lying bruised and battered upon a blood drenched floorboard. They are soon cleaned by her illuminated tears that seem to redeem her. Above her stands a silhouette, a chain clenched in its arm and a cold malice in the eyes I cannot see. She’ll soon be gone.
I cannot help but feel that there is some substance to my paranoia, and so, I cannot help but fear for Naomi more and more by the day. While it seems plausible given the state I saw her in, I must tell myself that it is insanity – for sanity’s sake.
For once, I wish to be the deranged. I believe myself to be, yet still cannot convince myself.
Maybe it was because of her.
I held a knife to my arm, today, in her name.
It floated less than an inch from my skin.
They stared each other down. They yearned for each other.
I started out to make a salad, but found myself with food for thought. It was bitter.
Was my inability to console Naomi the cause?
Or was it because of Angela, who was even more-so a mystery? Our run in at the train station had me reliving the event time and time again. It replayed constantly. She was the ‘Erotic Mobile Ringtones & Wallpapers Commerical’ in the late night TV show that was my life. (Mine, obviously lacking the same level of sex and nudity).
Of course, her name isn’t Angela. Or maybe it is. I don’t know. To me, she is Angela. Why? Lester Burnham was completely taken with Angela the first time he saw her. Then he saw her, again, and again, in his imagination that drew him away from the drudging melancholy of his life. Lester couldn’t possibly ever be with Angela, but it didn’t stop him from wanting to see her and allowing her to brighten his life with a single glance.
I can’t help but search the crowds for Angela. I returned to the station where we met.
On Wednesday. On Thursday. Friday too.
I found her. On the latter two of these days, she emerged from the station at three in the afternoon. Mind you, it took some waiting to discover this. The more I observe her, the more her eloquence shines through. Her subtleties sport a modern facade but imply something more graceful and of a Romantic era. I barely blink.
I almost felt I questioned my own life, through a knife, because of her.
I lived Lester’s tragic tale. While he was able to act upon his fascination, I cannot. Perhaps I would live Lester’s tale through to the very end – without the final moment of serenity or joy.
But it was because of Irene. My knowledge of her is far beyond fantasy or fabrication. That is her actual name. In a grim sea of companionships, she was the only one with a sail. (My talent for odd metaphors outdoes itself once more.) I cannot say whether it was this fact that made me hold a knife to my hand, or simply a realisation while I stood there contemplating: but today was our anniversary – would have been our anniversary.
I wanted to join her. I was only a knife’s edge away.
But I couldn’t. Whether it was my word to her that promised to endure after she was gone, or the fantasy to once more relive such a wonder through Angela – I don’t know. Perhaps it was both. Perhaps it was neither.
Perhaps it was cowardice.
Perhaps I lack the courage to endure, and perhaps I lack the courage to forfeit.
Perhaps I have nothing.
Perhaps I should place this knife to my skin, bleed my last memory and become irony itself in my embrace of death.
But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.
Perhaps that was because of Irene.
Irene
It is so strange that I should forget our relationship completely during this episode, and only remember it on a day of significance, without recognising the day at all. Perhaps it is a memory that transcends the mind, and exists in blood. It lives in a breath, within a heartbeat.
It may be forgotten, but never truly lost.
How happy is the blameless Vestal’s lot! The world forgetting, by the world forgot. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! Each pray’r accepted, and each wish resign’d.
- Alexander Pope
