Essais - Essays

Feeling

She's looking out the window. It's raining outside. It can seem like a gimmick, something you've seen a thousand times before; to say that it's raining, at the moment our protagonist is at its lowest. But in a naturalist manner, I see that the weather has a strong irony, and a tendancy to match the feelings that I get. Or maybe I feel things according to the weather.

Anyway, she's looking out the window, and it's raining outside.

The city seems sad, there, covered with the thin, soaked cloth of the clouds. The water pouring from them looks thick, almost tangible; she wants to go and grab them, roll herself in them, to feel the sweetness of summer rain on he skin.

But she does not.
She stays inside, her head stuck to the window.

What is she even thinking about?

Her face shows no emotion. In her eyes, if someone would've been here, at that exact moment, he could've seen a modicum of regret. But regret for what? For a teenage love story? An occasion she could not have taken, a kiss she did not dare to steal? 
Or maybe it's remorse, remorse for a love she should not have had? A occasion she should not have taken? A kiss she shouldn't had given?

She moves her head a little, putting its entirety against the window. Therefore, the freshness of the exterior seems toned down, as if this glass panel could filtrate coldness, coldness which bites and itches, and only let through the coolness, the coolness which gives us goosebumps and purify the soul, if this last one would ever be troubled.

Her soul is not troubled, that I know for sure. She seems to have reach peace with herself. The peace, she has to have it with her feelings.

There it is. Feelings. Humans have this particularity that they're not only unable to control their feelings, but they even tend to mix them together. Even the fact of putting a concept on feelings, and categorizing them, giving them names, shows an outrageous capacity to rationalize that which should not be.

Would she suffer less, if she could not lend a word on her sadness? If she could describe its symptoms, but that no one could tell her how she trully feels, orientate her thinking through a predefined scheme of what she's supposed to feel, in a precise order?

What is she thinking about?

Maybe to her childhood. To the time where problems were much, much simpler. Where she cared more about diner than her reputation, and the identity of her next lover.

She may not have had a simple childhood. No one has. The only thing which differenciates sane people, and the others, it's that the first of which have learned to live with it, and the others did not. Some were forced to follow the system, others follow it with all of their hearts.

I'm not talking about society or any of that. I'm talking about the system of feelings. The system which, through fiction, testimonies, pushes us to lend words, to feel things when we dare say that we love, when we dare say that we are in love. And if we do not follow this system, then we're not truly feeling. If you don't break anything, you're not angry? If you do not cry, you're not sad. If you don't have a flame burning inside of your heart, butterflies inside of your belly, if you don't feel like you're flying above the ground whenever you smell the perfume of your loved one, you do not actually love.

She's neither angry nor sad. I'd go for the third option.

Love. Whithout which the world would be both painless, and flavourless.

She puts her hair back behind her ears. I can see her eyes for a split second; I'd expect to see tears there, but I see none.

Is she forbidding herself to cry? Why would she hide it like that? Why would she not want to scream, to shout to the entire world her love, her sorrow? Because people would judge? Because it would hurt her?

What did that person did to her? Did that person love her? Was she deceived? Cheated on?

As an answer to my interrogations, she unstucks her head from the window, and lays down on the floor, whispering:

"Why... why me..."

No one did anything to her. She's in love.
I thought love had to be built, but I was wrong. Watching her like this, unable to think about anything else than the person she loves, and the extent of her unability to control her own feelings, I understand. She did not want to fall in love, it just happened to her.  A lightning, love at first sight; once again, a lot of futile names to categorize a feeling which should be proper to each individual.

She must have gone deep into her love, unable to differenciate the good that gave her her loved one, and the pain of being around them, when they were untouchable. She must have seen them, everyday, with hope, deep inside her, even after she was told 'No', even after time had passed,  even after all the time in the world had passed.

Because she's an uncorrectible optimist. That, you can deduce by looking at the rest of her bedroom. Covered with sketches, pictures and posters. The floor is covered with clothes, from today and yesterday. She takes great care of the decoration, but not the cleanness of her environment. She wants to go on, and feel better, not caring about the consequences.
That might be it. That state of feeling. It pushed her to tell them everything. Because she had to have told them.

Feelings are like a water bottle. Put under pressure, repressed, bottled, they always come out when you least expect it. So she preferred to know when it would come out, by doing it herself.

What was the reaction of that person on whom she had thrown her love, without their consent? Did they feel flaterred, hurt, betrayed, uneased?

As an answer to my silent questions, once again, she put her hands on her eyes, and whispered:

"I'm sorry..."

Forgiveness. A powerful tool. Not everyone forgives. Most of the time, it's the people whomst forgiveness hast been layed upon the most who tend to forgive. If you lived a life of failures , of deception, you're accostumed to beg for forgiveness. Some even ask to be forgiven of being sorry.

Will that person forgive her? Maybe she's desillusional. Maybe she's so blinded by the overwhelming feelings that she does not even feel like herself anymore, but a ghost of herself, a being of uncontrolable emotions.

She does not burst out into tears. Strange. She looks like she really wants to.

She rises up. Someone has called her, outside of the room.

I, stay. I cannot leave. I am too tied to this room, to her past. I'll disapear with time, I'll go.

I'll probably transform into something different. Never friendship again. But it could never be love.

It could never be me.