L'etranger

Inspired by Albert Camus' L'Etranger, but more truth than fiction; 

My name is Meursault.

I’m unhappy, and happy.

I’m not satisfied. I have everything I need.

On Thursday, I thought about jumping off a balcony.

I thought it would be soothing, and liberating, sailing through the air.

I almost did it.

Then I thought about the ground. Splat. That wouldn’t be good. That was the only reason I didn’t.

Splat.

I talked to a lot of people today. I haven’t talked to anyone in a while.

Everyone is really clever. I don’t think anyone will understand.

I think I might explode, from everything.

Or implode, from the gnawing emptiness.

It’s strange. It’s normal.

There really isn’t any difference.

I want to cry, all the time. But I don’t.

People would look at me strangely. That wouldn’t be good.

It’s selfish really. What I think. Is it?

Maybe it’s not. Maybe it is.

Talking isn’t that easy.

Talking is only easy when you’re not really saying anything. I do that a lot.

My name isn’t Meursault.


 

I Could Be

I could be sparkly too. I could be a shiny coin the magpie seeks, glistening at the bottom of the crystal clear pool. But in that moment when all eyes fall, and silence slices, words fail me. What could be filled with silver trinkets and sweet nothings is tainted, and another drop of mud clouds the pool.

I could be colourful too. I could be one of those girls with long flowing hair that gets picked up in the breeze, as if even the air around her pretty head wants to whisper softly in her ear. But every time I come close, the second there is a glimmer of light, a splash of colour, it all comes crashing down.

I could be graceful too. I could be mysterious and regal, soft spoken and gracious, perched on a throne of confidence. But that seat is taken, and it seems as though there is only space for one. And if bravery were all that could take it, it will never be me perched there.

I could be yours, too. I could be perfect in the eye of the beholder, looked at with compassion and awe. But those words have not touched my name, and in the game of thoughts those words and my name never meet.

I could be, I should be, I will never be.

Warmth

 

I’m in one of those hazy moments. Those times in life when everything is a little fuzzy and smothering. When I wear a sweatshirt and beg for snow and dream about Christmas trees and bonfires. I love these times. Life speeds up a bit too much for me most of the time. I need everything to go in slow motion for a while. Days in the kitchen cooking mince pies, spanakopita, and apple crumble. Lazy afternoons listening to the hum of my father’s guitar, gazing as the snowflakes stumble. These are the moments I will remember. I haven’t felt like this in a while. I miss it. Jakarta is fast. Pace. Movement. Not a minute lost. Every second a clock ticking. A minute of silence broken by motorbike. No. It’s too fast. ‘Slow down’ I want to scream at this city. Where have the seasons gone? Where are the autumn and the winter that brought this feeling to me every year? I’ve nearly forgotten the crunch of brown leaves and the thrill of falling into crisp snow. The feeling of cold rain drops on my skin and wind biting against my cheek. I didn’t think I’d miss those things. But after all, it’s the small things that you miss.

So here I am, homesick and in the bubble of haze. I never want it to leave. It’s like being in a dream. It’s like being wrapped in a blanket. It’s like the scent of fresh bread. It’s safe. I wish I could always feel like this.

In this city

I’ve got big eyes that want to see this world

And small ears that strain to soak up all they can

I live in house painted white

On a busy street

In a busy city

And every day I see people peddling their souls

Up and down my street

I look out my window and see the men sitting on the bend

Night and day they’re always there

On the bench that faces the park

I don’t know what they talk about

But I imagine they’re telling stories

Stories of life

Illustrated by each wrinkle on their face

And each callus on their hand

Those hands have worked hard

And haven’t gotten very far

But far is what we tell it to be

And they may go much much further than me.

My heart is turning to mush.

A very girly day watching the notebook and reading letterstocrushes.com, which I have been obsessed with for the past hour. One thing lead to another and I ended up writing my own. Aimed at no one in particular, odd for me, but generally at the world: 

I wish someone would write about me, for a change. I seem to be the one writing about everyone else, praising the details I love, cursing the details I don’t. And it’s because I think about them. I think about everyone in my life, no matter if I see them every day or once a year, or haven’t seen them in a while. I think about their flaws. I think about their gifts. I decide what I love and what I can’t stand. I have to do this, think everything through. I have to know where I stand, or I’ll go crazy. But I wish there was someone that did this too. I wish I knew they thought about me like I think about them. I wish I was thought of. Most of the time, I think I’m forgotten. There I go again, thinking about what other people think. It’s like I have some uncontrollable need to please people, and at the same time defy their expectations. I guess in some twisted way, I expect them to see what I’m doing, to look at me and just get me. I want them to know me. But I don’t think they do. I’m still waiting for them to catch up.  One person. That’s all it will take. If one person thought about me as much as I think about the world. If one person saw what I am desperately trying to scream in the silence.

I’m here. I’m ready. See me.

Help me defy this world.

Hold my hand.

Please.