A portrait in blue

So you think you’re an emotional black hole? I’ll tell you what you are: a survivalist. I know that description pleases you more than it should. You are wrong, though. I’ve known you since you were four. You were a fairly unusual child. More often than not, I’d see you look at old books with remorse in your eyes. I know you read the front covers, and wondered about their previous owners who’d left a few lines along the spine. What frightened me, though, was the way you looked at people you liked. You never seemed to realize that they were alive. Or maybe they didn’t. You never seemed to be able to feel what was ordinary. So, late at night, when the screams of the only person you cared for in the world pierced the stillness, you never went to her side. You were afraid to, I know. Hence, you just let your heart break, and your fingers, write. You always said that befriending objects reaped richer rewards than befriending people. You were right. Those words you always read flowed onto paper through your pen, and you succeeded in killing the human being inside of you. There was a surprise! People seemed to like what you wrote! Soon enough, people fell hard for the world in your words, and you found a sinister new side. You cannot deny, though, that you cried tears one night! Looking from my balcony into pouring rains, I saw you at the piano that night. When no one knew where you were, I know you were singing in a voice soft with passion, “I dream of Paradise”. I know you left the piano to the rains that night. You were attractive though, kid! Impaired by inhumanity, you had beauty to compensate for it. You had still, that perfect profile. Clothed in blue, sitting still in an old, stuffy room, there was no one that could look you in the eyes! Those chameleon eyes. Good looking and ever innocent, the onlooker could never tell that what lay behind was contemplation of their undoing. You had charm, though. Women loved you, and you attracted all the wrong kinds. Needless to say, you left the place in ruins. Some time later, you were quavering. You had found frightening new direction, and had lost good friends. One more delusion, you thought you never could sleep at night. There was too much pent up grief. To evade the crushing familiarity, you sought out the ones as broken as you. In this new place. And one night, you swore you saw sparks in the sky that were blue. Never fear, I knew you were always here. I knew who you were from the day the old women saw spirits on the streets. A lot of other people saw them too. You were the one who claimed they were your friends, you were not alone. They say spirits communicate with us through unprovoked writing. Maybe there was a reason that the only unprovoked sentence you wrote was “I am Sin. I am the Devil. Steeped in ruin, blue on blue”. Maybe there is a reason behind someone’s thoughts always speaking to them in the second person. But on silent evenings, across the road from towering lights, I’ve seen you quicken into flight. Do not even you, run for your life?

-Ratula Bannerjee

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