Our greatest woe is to be born as ourselves. To know ourselves too deeply to feel affection for. Sympathy. Empathy. We are too desperate and too bothersome. Too unlucky and too pitiful.
A woman opens the door to her quaint apartment, in a quaint town, not too far from a big city where she can go whenever the skyscrapers call. The furniture is plain but classic; minimal but cosy. The snow outside sets neatly on her window sill. The smell of cinnamon, chocolate chips and baked flour, greets her at the door. There’s a muffled sound of a shower running in the bathroom. Her cat rubs against her ankles and leaves a lingering softness. Her shoes chip quietly on the wooden floor.
The balcony outside is shielded from the blanket of snow. The floor is cobbled and a cane sofa sits patiently covered in a plastic sheet. The potted plants are bare but they await life eagerly. Beyond the white flakes, lies a bed of hills and the peaceful unknown.
How stark those words contrast each other: “peaceful unknown”. You would think they are antonyms. Like ascribing a reassuring connotation to “endless possibilities of life”.
Will she be a renowned singer? A seaside author? An inconspicuous painter? A metropolitan, interior-decorator? A rock climber, a rehab owner, a dancer. Will she scoff at these superficial labels, choosing instead to call herself a wanderer — first and foremost (however cheesy it may sound). Will she pave her way through invisible sufferings for a quiet life of chasing-contentment? One that is deemed unfulfilling and meaningless by her previous self?
Will she build another ramshackled armor for her spirit? Will it last longer than the last? Will she break her own skin again? Will she want more than she can get? Writing furiously: only to erase. Die to wake again. How long does Mercy stay with those who do not accept it?
