She was weird.
I mean, who else says that she has fallen in love with “blue”? Or the number eight? Or a tree? That the universe speaks to her when its raining.
Storms. She used to love storms. Wild heavy storms which made a lot of noise and lightning. She used to say that the rain was like a curtain around her house which cocoons her and the day it stormed, she would sleep like a baby knowing that she was safe.
She was curious too. She always said “Curiosity killed the cat and I am that cat!” and then laughed her deep heartfelt laughter. There were days when her eyes would be dead and her lips would not smile and she would hear what you said but seem like she is a thousand miles away. Her hair, to her, on those days, always seemed lank and she would look like a painting stripped of color but resplendent in black and white. Her head would nod, but through her eyes, you could see her in some parallel universe crunching some impossible problem.
And hell yeah! It was difficult to love her, it was difficult to live with her but god! was it impossible to leave her! She was like a drug whom I kept craving more and more knowing that I will impossibly waste away while she lives her life in her fantasy land.
But then there would be days when she would say that her head is blank and that she has nothing deep to ponder upon and wonder whether she is becoming an airhead who has no troubles in life or whether she is turning into someone who cares for nothing. But those would be the happiest days for me. Little things would make her smile brightly, a slight wind ruffling her hair would make her laugh and clap her hands, her twinkling eyes and undying energy would be contagious and I would be swept along with her to some universe in which I was floating on a cotton candy.
Dusty books, old letters, ancient broken trinkets, silent movies and children’s smiles: those were her salvation. She would pour her heart out in a diary writing abstract-nothings day in and day out and would keep it out in the open. I would take a peek in it to try to understand her soul but to me it seemed that she wrote nothing of substance. The pages would be filled with blue ink in that slanting beautiful handwriting that I had gotten used to seeing on grocery lists but the diary was, as if, telling the story of someone else. She smiled and never cried while the pages of the diary: they never seemed to know a cloudless day.
But maybe, she cried her tears in ink.
Sadness-anger-hope, they formed an impossible cycle for the rebel inside and she would shake and rage and cry herself to sleep only to wake up in the middle of the night in a fit of hope to write a solution which came to her in the serendipity of dreams. A sad smile, a brimming eye, a begging hand, they touched her heart in such ways that they left a gaping hole and she would agonize over the fate of the world. At that time, her blazing eyes could set an ocean on fire.
And I was left wondering whether she was “storm wrapped in a skin for hire!”.