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Cookney

She smells of musty cloth. If a paradox was a living thing, then a paradox would smell like damp cloth that's dry. Her hair a wisty silver not often caught in sun, her eyes as bleak as a summer afternoon covered with heavy clouds of rain. She looks again in the mirror, watching as the lines of her face showed no signs of smoothing over.

She runs her finger over the creased edge in the mirror, the broken edge and watches while her finger pricks the sharp edge and gives way to soma. It starts like a lone pebble at the edge of a gigantic cliff, and threatens to stoop over and fall insignificantly into a deep widening gore in between a mountain.

She runs one creased finger vertically along the sharp edge, and as it reaches the joints of her palm, the end of the road, she presses harder on the lone sharp edge. By now, it's not sharp any more, somewhere it's lost its finer tip.. somewhere within her bleeding finger it lies dormant enjoying the movement of swelling blood.

She can feel the edge bluntly bouncing back against the bone of her finger, and presses it harder into her bone. She watches her face watching her finger bending backwards slowly resisting.

It is calm, it does not care. Pain doesn't feel anymore than hurt does. In a world where feelings are agreed meanings construed upon apparently common emotions, she does not think she's felt pain. What is it? She moans, within.

So old, lived so long, felt nothing called pain. Jealousy, carefully gaurded can inhabit 'pain'.
Fear when nurtured can become 'pain'. But what is 'pain' when pain itself has no comparision. What is the opposite of pain? Pain comes and then when it goes, what does it leave behind?
What if pain is a permanent existence for some of us, then would that mean that the rare ocassion of pain-less- ness that one can feel can be interpreted as pain itself?

She heaves a heavy sigh, desperate to know. She swiflty hastily and almost desperately brings her other hand forward. With speed that belies her age, cracks the first bone, her distal phalanges. People crack their fingers towards their palms, she cracked her fingers away.

It snapped and held loose, swaying loosely almost like a heavy coca palm in light afternoon breeze. She smiles. She cracks the second connection. The finger now stunted resembles an awkward lingam, a tiny willy, a midget finger.

As winds change, and as time flies, the finger is left to stand alone, to bleed in a solitary struggle to live and to mend and to cure. Futile day after day, after week, when it's rich creamy liquid running from the finger instead of red blood, she still feels no pain.

As she feels faint and feels tired and tempted to lie down and watch the cracks on the floorboards for a change, she feels no pain.

As the light draws on, paints the sky with vibrant orange and pink, her eyes close, having never felt pain.

Comments

loren said…
ur so dep lol

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