She wondered why she was sad. It is not like her being sad would make someone happy. Or would it? Was someone wishing her to be unhappy? It was a creepy thought. Maybe someone was. But that was all the more reason for her to not be unhappy.
She kept trying to string together the bogies of her planned train of thought to finish her writing assignment, but they kept getting derailed by one recurring thought – no it was not a thought, it was a feeling. Feelings were a big problem. Thoughts you can discard. Feelings tend to persist.
Was he mad at her? Was he angry because she suddenly pressed the exit button everywhere? Was he really as bad as she thought he was? Was it worthwhile to talk to him again…? Or would it make everything worse? Would it again throw bits & pieces of her mind into 16 different directions?
She had no answers. And that is why she was not able to put that feeling aside. This is the best way in which she could describe how she felt, but it was a feeling, not a logical idea. No matter what you do, you can’t articulate it in words. As a writer, that sucked. But it was what it was.
She had no answers. Only more questions. And the web of questions led her to waste hours of her time doing absolutely nothing. Maybe not nothing – she was good at distracting herself with keyboarding on the web…making a few tweets & posts, answering people, getting riled reading annoying posts, trying to then make up for it by reading some cute or funny posts….oh there were infinite ways to waste days of time on the web! It may have added up to some views, but in the bigger scheme of things, was it really worth it?
That was a good question to ask.
There were good questions, and bad questions. Good questions made you feel at peace with yourself, made you feel complete. Bad questions made your thoughts float around like a bowl of noodle soup. Visually, that is, not taste-wise.
Was it really worth it?
She had no straight answer, but she knew in her heart that the answer was yes. Yes, it was worth opening up to someone, discovering a part of their world, no matter how small the peephole, and letting some of that alter the way you do life. Yes, it was, for once, nice to rediscover a part of you in the other, which reminded and inspired you to bring back that part of you to life again. It was worth it to go close and learn sooner, than to stay far away, and waste more time in discovering the ugly truth. It was nice for a change to be loved and cared for. It was nice for a change to love back. It did not feel complete, and that is because it was not, but it was the beginning of the road. It was not the end. It is not the end.
She felt she was on the right road in life. Which was what mattered the most. He could not walk on this road too far, and had to be let go, but the road was the right one.
To others she looked “normal.” Just as moody and cranky. Sleeping at wrong times, waking at weird times, as always. Always low on time. Always withdrawn, and away from humanity. In her own world. No one knew whether she was happy or sad. And they didn’t need to.
People had no idea what her life was like. And they had no way of knowing either. And she liked it that way now. There was no need for people to know. Because wherever people go, they only create confusion, not resolution. She could anyway not repeat this story to anyone in entirety again. So what was the point of talking at all? Snippets are the biggest bane of a story.
She got back to her writing assignment. She would start again from the beginning. Beginnings were the best part of everything.