what they could never tell her

there was more, she thought. more than what she was told.   her eyes moved gracefully through the crowded room.  all these people, all vast concepts of expressions. for every hour of time, the room breathed in more smoke and mirrors.  her headaches always worsened as her threshold for bullshit was quite minimal. her heart was open and all she could taste was vile emptiness.

all these people, she thought, each one told their own story.  each held secrets and lies behind genuine laughs, genuine smiles, genuine tears.  their faces - that’s how she learned to “read” and the more reading she accomplished the more time she spent in hiding.  words were meaningless spells, mindless calculators of dark hollow voids.  she saw more than what she could research on paper, for each crowded room told a story.  she felt completely invisible and yet could penetrate every single person’s soul beyond what they could speak.  their words, yet again, murky, trivial. i can see you, she would whisper to herself.  in quiet. in confidence.  

in her room at night she gazed wearily at these incomprehensible star-scapes.  the story she knew was her own, and, secretly theirs as well, without wanting it.  yet they always became part of her - every interaction.  such a desperate world she was surrounded - and no one could save her from this slow, extinction.

their clouded grief, tired smiles, painful joy, unrelenting resentments, escapisms and regret…  she could feel from their faces a new facet of humanity, a new understanding of what it was to be human - to really feel, all of it, without a word or meaning, without a set of terminology, without a language.  there was no language for this. language was impossible.

how could this uniquely maddening study be dissected and phrased?  unfortunately, there was no such study.  there was no such key to dissolving such liquid-understanding, it would only become condensation upon another cold glass left in the dark.

as usual, you had to be there.

her only escape was to watch, to feel, and try and breathe. barely, barely breathing.  she always had to remind herself to breathe… to listen.  listen to their eyes swim, their mouth water, their ears twitch a different muscle ever so slightly, their hair moving discreetly without anyone noticing, only to her.  and it was magic. she was constantly captivated - watching them, listening to each muscle, intently, intensely.

she saw their story, she could feel every ounce, every drop of sweat they drew during their sleep.  she kept quiet her knowledge. she drove herself mad behind closed doors, weeping oceans of tears over her findings. their joy and pain became part of her, like a tsunami and great desert transpiring their own, intimate war of the gods.

inside her, the sun a moon steadily collapsed - a commitment of the human heart, sustaining blood to each nerve, vessel and inhale.  Inhaling was easy, exhaling was a more delicate matter.

this, these findings, no notebooks, only memories.
and if she found herself in the company of a lover, the ocean’s depths of his soul only drowned her… the galaxy’s infinite landscape of his subconscious only suffocated her.  his sweat, mouth and beguiling eyes only punctured her wounds even deeper - his pain and suffering became her.  his tortured past and insufferable childhood only gutting her deeper, the heavy knife drawing further in with each gasp and breath they shared.  she saw him last night in her dreams.  like a movie reel, she saw them sitting together, very closely, embracing in a crowded room. the background was oddly muffled. he seemed to be holding her tightly in this dark room, dimly-lit, oddly orange and full of smoke.  his arms were long around her small frame. he lowered his forehead onto her shoulder in relief and quietly whispered under his breath for the first time, “I love you.” after all these years, she thought. so she closed her eyes quickly, veiling her tears, turned her face into his neck, closing her lips in under his ear and breathed out with a long sigh, “I love you, too.”

she could see it all. she could feel it all. every particle and salty tear… each exhilarating expression of elated breath - her lungs, constantly suffocated with this debilitating and daily internal scarring.  such immeasurable emotion, there was no cure. science cannot detect it. mathematics cannot recognize its non-numerical pattern. english cannot express, properly, this endless wave of mindful, human dementia. psychology has no vocabulary for such chaos, nor should it, could it, or would it ever be possible.  any word or linguistic expert would destroy it’s magic.  you can’t measure certain aspects of humanity.  nor would you ever want to.  because it's magic.  

within her, for every breath, there is peace and chaos living as roommates behind her shadow. a daily, personal experiment she can hold hands with, but can never let go of. she can hold it at bay, at her own will and understanding.  it’s a rollercoaster.  it’s the ride of a lifetime, this internal-external analysis, a soothing ecstasy for her heart.  sometimes she rests her hand over her lungs, closes her eyes and breathes.  sometimes she says 'I love you,' to those she misses so so much, to those who might miss her, to those in pain or in pure joy. this expression of time and space within her lungs is a heavy burden.  she loves it and she hates it, but it is who she is.

for every moment she sleeps into another waking death and wakes up to the sun ablaze, piercing her heart, she must constantly remind herself she has no control over any of this. And she never will. This is what no one could ever tell her.

lloyd meudell

lloyd meudell