You wake. At the age of fifty; new
born. It is cruelty, but the author monarch rarely metes out concern
and sympathy. She dragged you into this mess that you find yourself
situated in, gives you a worn, crumpled body and kicks you in the
nuts, waking you up to the beginning of your story, which is near-end
or middle, whatever. As she smirks in the background, you pick
yourself up, dusting dirt off your ass, grind your teeth and wait.
For all you can do is wait. (“Be thankful that you can walk”, she
hoots from between the lines.
She drags something in, puts it before
you and walks off, haughtily. You have a sense of foreboding, but
what can you do but walk as she designs? It's a mirror. “This
happens often”, you whisper in the ear of an yet unborn reader.
Painful, but common, like toothache. You brace yourself for a
thousand needles waiting to trim you up nicely, chisels to bluntly
cut you, paint to be thrown at you and clothes to be glued in,
careful not to laugh when the brush gives you 'features'. You can see
the cursor moving, sometimes picking blue eyes, blonde hair - that
was a long time back; now it is usually modelled more or less on her
or people she knows (no hegemony or political incorrectness there,
heh?) But nothing happens today. You are just a blur. Is she waiting
for you to dust the mirror? You scrub at it a bit (after all it has
been stowed away for quite some time). Nothing. Then it is sheer
agony. Things pull at you, rip you apart, make you a paranoid freak
developing a new phobia each day, wanting to kill youself, but unable
to because you are afraid, most of all, of death. She chooses a plain
face, no striking features unless you ount the sleep-deprived racoon
eyes. It stops for a minute; the flurry. Then, the mirror shatters.
As you shield yourself from the shards
that are all over the place, excruciating pain binds you, you are
being twisted (you see yourself as one of the gas-station tubes;
maybe she wants you to fuck a fuel-tank, some thing theory crap she
is obsessed with now-a-days) dipped in so many different inks like a
disgusting ice-cream, ripped apart, glued together like a tightly
wound-up ball of chaos and confusion. Now it's panic. This has never
happened to you before. She has always let you know what you are (she
even drew up lists of things you are into, likes, dislikes etc). You
are powerlesss and you kill yourself trying to picture your sleep and
dorm, waiting for that narrative voice to tell you what you are
atleast. You are spun, really fast, like a top. In your head you are
a white blur with streaks of colors once in a while. You want to stop
but you can't. You are dizzy and sure that you going to be killed ff.
That's solace for you, for you have found the depths of the dustbin
comforting. It'll suck if she leaves you there, in that small dark
box, shards of glass on the ground (spiders somewhere for sure) and
the claustrophobic smell of sweat and urine, which you hope, with all
the hope she's bestowed on you, is yours.
Yet, that is your fate. To be hidden
away with a note 'for later'. Later, you scoff; you know the meaning
of later by now. But the pain, the suffocation, the intensity of it
all is new, She is looking at you with expectation, like mothers
often do, waiting for you to surprise her pleasantly. Enough for her
to cry out 'See, that is my child out there'. But what agency do you
have? She looks for you, constantly, in every person she meets. Falls
in love with a couple of them, hoping to find you in them. They
become just distractions. Step-fathers distancing you from her.
(Stereotypical?). You want to scream out to her; come, sit down,
chill the fuck out and write. Write about you. But what? You are sick
of all this waiting to be birthed. Why not refuse to be a part of
this drama which is injurious to both of you? So you recede further
and she takes to painting, hoping that obscure lines will convey to
others what you are; not even considering what she wants you to be.
Not paying attention to you. After all, you are just ink waiting to
flow.
