About almost 2 years ago I wrote some of my friends as book characters/character interpretation for a writing exercise — and while this one may not be an exercise, I wanted to do a reboot because it’s fun and I haven’t written in a long time, have to be able to fuel the engine to keep it running.
In this series of character interpretation, the names have been anonymous to let things remain mysterious — adding that anyone in the world reading this could create their own image in their head. Also I felt like creating a challenge out of this so I tag The Shubhster Diaries to write her own series of interpretations and pass this on. You can tag multiple people, or do it even if you aren’t tagged. Remember to let it remain anonymous for the fun of it.
It was the day. The day of moving. The day everything, she knew would be gone. Familiarity would be a memory locked away in an old dusty wooden box, to be reopened years later, simply to reminisce. Cardboard boxes scrawled on in black broad felt-tip marker, bare walls devoid of the usual smiling framed faces, dirt and dust shapes on the floor like templates of the furniture that once stood there, white parcel labels stuck on black garbage bags of clothes, as each thing is packed the home becomes a house once more, awaiting a new life in a new home. Sitting on one of the cardboard boxes, she wrote her blog entry, staring outside to see new set of buildings — tall and high, cloudy sunset made everything look warm and orange. She wondered if she could peek out and see face of the moon, or a way to click pictures of it as conveniently as she used to, in her previous house. As the sky turned darker by the minute, she got up to get her camera. Her wavy hair tucked in tight braids, camera strap moved occasionally around her wrist — and there it was, an orb with the company of the sun, reflecting light, not silver, but with a buttermilk glow — beautiful on the preview screen of her camera.
He saw a brilliance in food, a potential to help and heal others, a way to show them how the sublime was simply a mixture of the ordinary. It was his genius at play, seeing what the rest of us didn’t. I guess that’s why we called it him culinary magic and joked that his spoon was a wand carved from the spirit tree. Either way, he made us all so happy, food does that, right? It feeds the soul, brings smiles and bonds, makes everything so much better. He picked up the chopping knife and cut the vegetables into perfect matchsticks in the time it took most people just peel the carrots. Every motion was precise from intense repetition and he prided himself on the machine-like perfection of his shapes. Everything was even, uniform, perfect. “Today is the day for lasagna” he muttered under his breath, at the same time grinning, his expressions almost childlike, knowing what he was going to make today was going to be delicious — and to people who would be reading his recipes online too. The music played and he cut and placed the ingredients to the same rhythm. Nothing was going to go wrong today.
She sat by the reading nook of the room, which was a broad space attached to the window, it was perfect for sunset to come in during golden hours, perfect for pictures, perfect for soaking your skin in. In her hand was a Murakami book, same book that Kim Namjoon was seen reading the other day in a behind video uploaded in YouTube. She had short curly hair and doe like eyes behind her glasses. Sun shone down on her face, lighting it up but it was her skin that glowed the most. Her eyes narrowed down to a couple of people having a conversation down on the road. She began reading what the conversation may be about. She giggled and made hysterical narrations, it was fun while it lasted. Then she looked down at the book and wondered — Intuition — the act of reading another person “like a book,” although you would never think it be that simple. People make it sound like you can just look at someone and know exactly what they are thinking at all times but that can’t be the case, can it? She’s heard that the eyes are a window to the soul but they aren’t just a hole in a wall. She supposes nobody can really know, maybe that is a good thing or maybe it’s a curse. One thing is for sure – humans are complicated and amazing creatures, so don’t even try to look through the window until you can walk through the door.
In every rain that pours, in every leaf that somersaults to the ground, her heart longed to be outside. Yet she was stuck inside, locked away from freedom. Happiness seemed far away, yet right outside the window. She saw that she took her freedom for granted and now freedom takes her for granted. It takes years to gain freedom but takes only a few seconds to lose it. So she took a stance. It wasn’t an easy one because it was bound to society, she never imagined that she’d emerge victorious. Things are still hard and at times it felt like maybe taking that stance wasn’t the right thing to do — but the will for living her life her own way was the strongest foundation of her decision. People that have found their passion, people that found the things they love, people that found the things they can pour their lives into, those people live longer. She wanted to do something creative, be who she was from the depths of her heart regardless of what anyone else thought. She was also trying to encourage everybody out there to take advantage of life. Get busy living. It’s been a year since and things have started looking up for the better — and she made it happen. She was that woman.
The music was his external heartbeat and the lyrics were his soul in sweet vibrations; he could sing forever these poetic words, his ode to the universal love and one another, to nature and creation. Yet all of it is right there when in that momentary exchange of glances, seeing the person smile to the song he played in a cafe, his guitar was pale beige — his fingers held onto each fret effortlessly. So though the world may love his music, his words and these songs, music really only lives in those intense moments of love we give without ever trying, those looks that are barely glances, in the bond he made so accidentally. Love is music without volume, but it’s also a seed that grows to form infinite branches, roots and blooms, and through his soul, through this sense of intuition that demands a voice, the part of music we can hear, what the world thinks of as music, is born. He looked over the crowd. There must have been at least one hundred people watching him, bathing in the dim purple light of the club, as he clutched tightly to his guitar. Nerves were trying to take over his body, but it only improved the pizzicato of his performance. His heart kept time with the drums, pumping the music through his veins as he lost himself in the performance. Eventually, he lost all sense of everything except for the music.
Late evening, he sat taking his phone to his hand — his face told of a lean body beneath his clothes and his expression was serious but not unkind. Ordinarily fine, more ordinarily witty. His twitter timeline was sprawled with current affairs — right wing extremists protesting over a film, number of people dying from covid, which music scored #1 in billboard hot 100, media trail of yet another actor who resorted to take his own life. It was a mess if you asked him. Morning newspaper wasn’t any different. Even in news channels, people howled down their opinions in prime time debates — blaming the politico-economic system for taking resources from the developing world, leaving them destitute and starving — he thought all of it was akin to blaming a slaughterhouse for dead cows. He wondered how the system was doing what it was set up to do. This is why he wanted the system to change. He also wondered if an artist painted a picture book of the left and right side of the coin, if they would look just the same – no words, just pictures. He wondered if it were the same for the principles of every religion, if instead of words it was only art. Wouldn’t they all be paintings of love, of sharing, of caring? And wouldn’t they be so much easier to understand than inches of text?
If you’ve gotten this far, thanks for reading and let me know if you want me to do this more often. Until next time.