something to look forward to, a tiny tragedy

A full thought escaped her lips until again she returned to a static like pure silence. It was a blurb. It was one small thought that bubbled over when it became – when it appeared to become – too much to keep contained. It was the unfamiliar furrow of her unmarked brow that struck me as odd before the realization of her words containing meaning. It was this one expression that called my attention back to what was being said. A moment of lucidity, and to think it nearly missed! (I have trained myself to avoid being consumed by too much insignificance). I am remiss to forget specific words and phrases, and to ask would be for clarification on some forgotten fever dream. I am left to use my own twist.

It was something about life…something about life going on without it feeling much like living. It seems she stopped feeling like she was living her own life. Instead, it felt like a series of passive actions starting from the point of settling into this place…starting from the point of getting comfortable in just one point of life. It stopped feeling like living a life and turned into something distinct and different. The motions became the same to the point of blurring, and the days were only known because they continued to be named. The feeling was consistent. It was something to be counted on. It didn’t feel much like living.

Her voice changed cadence and what followed reduced what had just passed to a hardly-ever-there. She planned a holiday. She needed an escape from the same old everyday-to-everyday. I supposed, ‘That’ll be good enou-That’ll be good for you.’ A nod in agreement. A strained but well-meant smile in reply.

I suppose that is enough for some, and possibly for the many, the most, and the nearly all as well. A stay at some resort on some beach, by some different-for-you but still all-too-similar waterfront. I suppose this is enough to remain stably contented with immotion.

She needed a vacation from the place to forget about its stasis. She’ll come back with a tan, and it will say to the world (without additional content) that she had had some recent fun. She will have some fun, and she will take some pictures; I will see them on her Instagram, and maybe ‘like’ or even like a few. She will give pause to the feeling that life is not living, and then return to the static of the contentless chatter, recontented, and, in general, of a brighter hue.

My hue skews too dark. This pause seems like a pacified delay after being condemned to crucifixion. This pause feels like what it is: a way to stay in place. I stayed silent (seeing no point in fueling unlit fires). I stayed in place. I watched the personification of excited complacency making shapes with the features of her face, as her brow settled into its relaxed steady-state, and her eyes lit up to tell me more about the plans she couldn’t wait to keep.

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