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.