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Wistfulness

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I stand alone in a crowded room, almost bewildered by the voices and laughter and cries and voices lifted in song all around. For once in my life not a single word comes to mind, and I am thoughtless. I avoid the pain of reflection . . . of remembering. Every time I glance towards the stage, towards the place where he would stand, his guitar slung over one shoulder as he leans close to the microphone, his brilliant eyes always finding mine. I trace back mentally to the first night when I walked into this same room, to when I caught a glimpse of him through the crowd, his eyes lifted and voice raised. I try to forget again, but then I realize I cannot focus. My thoughts will not comply to my own rationality. So, I try to close off the memories. They will return, persistent and mocking. They will taunt me with their facade of reality, their disguise of truth. But no. I know them for what they are: the memories are nothing but lies, dreams, and illusions.

I let myself fall for someone I never knew.

I only saw him from afar, and never could summon the courage to speak to him. And he lacked the courtesy to initiate. Thus, this fictional affair remains a figment of my imagination. It stings me, for I become acutely aware of my naivety.



I promised myself to never weaken. To never surrender to a daydream. Those daydreams . . . oh, yes . . . they bring you to your knees when left alone to their own devices.


Flash forward . . .

And then I'm under the stars, no longer in that sanctuary. Suddenly I'm on a blanket in a park beside my friends, and I turn my head. I catch sight of someone--a strong profile against the moonlit night. His white jacket offsets his dark hair, his smile bespeaking of his amusement. But he does not look at me. He grins and laughs with Rae Steele, one of our friends. He lets her lean close, and they chuckle together over some mutual joke. I am left out, excluded from their tryst. But I lack the courage to speak, to draw his eyes to me. With a sigh I lower my head to the blanket beneath me, and gaze up at the stars while our band of comrades watch the actors on the park stage reenact Shakespeare. I listen to the woeful speeches, to the tearful Ophelia lamenting Hamlet's disdain, to the mounting tragedy of the piece. In a fierce whisper, I demand, "I just don't understand . . . how come I always find pain when I look for hope . . . and love?" But the stars hold no answer.

Someone beyond the stars holds that answer. But I forget that, and listen to the laughter and voices around me.


I burn myself out. I yearn, but always remain empty handed and alone. I find disappointment wherever I try to look. But never mind. Perhaps it is predestined?


The strong profile does not face mine. It faces hers. He speaks to someone else. This is the last night. Before goodbye. We have always been friends. We always could say "hi" with little awkwardness, though my legs would threaten to dissolve beneath me. But tonight we must say "Goodbye". I never had the courage to say what I wanted. Now I have no voice.



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lilly said...
Dec. 6, 2012 at 12:06 pm
I love your story! It was so fun to read...You should post more! I rated it 5 stars!
 
Virginia replied...
Feb. 15, 2013 at 8:22 pm
Thank you so much! I'm delighted that you liked it!
 
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