The Book
Thick of emotions
…Funny, because the book was — funny. But it made me cry. For having fun with a book instead of people. For being on the outside of that funny book, not being part of the fun, just watching it through its confusing window of paper and ink.
That thought made me laugh. Sad, because the thought was — sad. I laughed over the silly situation of crying over a funny book, because of its abstracted nature, its non-presence, its imaginary nature. Sarcastic self-ironic defensive laughing over sad humour.
That realization made me cry again. And think, and laugh, and cry. A true Janus, me, my head spinning, faster, alternating expressions, me getting dizzy, expressions getting blurry, thoughts getting numb. Turning into stone.
Stone-face looked at another book. A third, a fourth. Romantic, funny, horrifying. No reaction. The air thick of emotions, but nothing getting through the stone mask. Breaking it down, however, adding scars and erosion. Nose tip and earlobes, cheeks and chin, forehead — nothing like the previous smooth marble, now revealed as fragile, rough cement.
The book was full of life. Teaching, instructing. It was life. It guided and lived my life that I could watch only from the outside. It now sits on the shelf, worn and torn. And it sits in the face, the face revealing the soul. Stoned by life. Not hardened, just stoned. Worn and torn. Fragile stone.
The book was my cry. My one attempt. My first and my last.