The Smell of Lead
Sunday, April 02, 2006
The Smell of Lead
'...It would be wonderful to say you regretted it. It would be easy. But what does it mean? What does it mean to regret when you have no choice?..."
- Laura Brown
He was running late,late for book in that night he remember.It was reluctance perhaps,to return to the same mundane life that he now leads.He resented it,and he hated himself living in it,but does he have a choice?Did he have any options,as to the life to choose,the life he leads?Just some of the things that goes through his mind,whenever it was time to leave the house,to jump into his father's car and head back to reality.
It was then,while he was getting dressed,he saw the picture once more.The picture.He cursed under his breath,to his bad habit of always giving a glance at it before going out everytime.It was one of those natural things to do perhaps,to remind oneself of the painful past.To be pinched back to life,to be awake once more.
But that day,that fateful day,he looked at it a second too long than other days.He stared,and stopped short for a while with his collar undone.He held out his hand,and took down the picture,which was in a plastic cover,the way she gave it to him 140 days ago.Oh yes,he counted.He counted the days,ever since that one day.
At the bottom left of the picture,signed off by her and a date.He remembers asking her about the strange "L" behind her name.It turned out to be the initial of her surname,which is "M" actually,just cursive.She got the date wrong,he realised then.Strange,how he never noticed it before.It was dated back in 2004,a full year before they even met.It was as if she did it on purpose,remind him of something he told her,in one of their numerous conversations long ago,when there still plenty to speak of.
Behind the picture was the name of the picture the boy chose."The Dancing Baby",because in the picture it was the boy himself.It was him,in the picture,staring at this toy train his parents bought for him when he was young.She used to make fun of him,of his expressionlessnes,and how he retorted that he was doing an imitation of wood,a substract dance of sorts.Which was why,it was then,he decided to name the picture "The Dancing Baby".At the bottom of it,was a sentence written by her.It said,"To the boy who is always doing the same old dance..." The same old dance,the same old...
Why do we pretend,why do we act?For whose sake do we entertain,for whom do we aim to please?When you walk down the street,when you imagine her looking at you from around the corner,in somebody else's arms,why do you imagine yourself,to force yourself to think a certain way,to convince yourself that you are all right,that it is okay when it is in fact,not?
The masks we wear,to conceal a certain aspect of yourself,will one day breakthrough.And you will find yourself naked,not just the face,but all over.You then take refuge in the corner,hoping nobody would see you.And people dont,and nobody takes heed of you,and alone you remain.To be lonely,you shall.
Do we regret,or can we forgive ourselves for doing something?What is regret,when at that very moment of commitment,it all seemed justified,so right?What is there to regret,when you never had a chance to choose,no other options lie before you.Do we still,now,regret in doing so?Was it wrong to like,to obsess,to infatuate,to love?Was it a mistake,is it still,to love thyself in a knowing way,to fully understand the beauty of being mistakened,the beauty in a breakdown?
Why do we throw parties,to live a lie,when we are so deafened by the silence screaming inside.Do we have an explanation for our stupidity,or is it just an aspect of our willingness,acting upon our sanity.Do we will regret,can we still forgive,do we still remain pretentious?
He took the picture out of the plastic cover,and placed his palm upon the drawing.He could see the deep pencil marks still,the depression made from her strokes.He could feel it,and his hand remained,as if the touch of these depressions,these lines could somehow make him feel her again,to be whole again.
He then held it close to his face,and the smell of lead came.It was then,when his nose felt sour once more,the first time in a long while.The smell of her shampoo,her closeness was gone,only to be replaced and reminded by the smell of lead.So cold,and artificial at the same time.On his fingers,the lead stained.He rubbed the tip of his index and thumb together,hoping that they would come off.But at the same time,a dilemma.He didnt want them to go away,to disappear.He didnt want the feeling to be gone,like she did so many hours and days ago.He hesitated,and just before her mother knocked on his door to remind him of the time,he slotted the picture back into the cover and felt the room,closing the light on his way out and in a way,his mind as well.
"...Oh, Mrs. Dalloway.Always giving parties to cover the silence..."
- Richard Brown
'...It would be wonderful to say you regretted it. It would be easy. But what does it mean? What does it mean to regret when you have no choice?..."
- Laura Brown
He was running late,late for book in that night he remember.It was reluctance perhaps,to return to the same mundane life that he now leads.He resented it,and he hated himself living in it,but does he have a choice?Did he have any options,as to the life to choose,the life he leads?Just some of the things that goes through his mind,whenever it was time to leave the house,to jump into his father's car and head back to reality.
It was then,while he was getting dressed,he saw the picture once more.The picture.He cursed under his breath,to his bad habit of always giving a glance at it before going out everytime.It was one of those natural things to do perhaps,to remind oneself of the painful past.To be pinched back to life,to be awake once more.
But that day,that fateful day,he looked at it a second too long than other days.He stared,and stopped short for a while with his collar undone.He held out his hand,and took down the picture,which was in a plastic cover,the way she gave it to him 140 days ago.Oh yes,he counted.He counted the days,ever since that one day.
At the bottom left of the picture,signed off by her and a date.He remembers asking her about the strange "L" behind her name.It turned out to be the initial of her surname,which is "M" actually,just cursive.She got the date wrong,he realised then.Strange,how he never noticed it before.It was dated back in 2004,a full year before they even met.It was as if she did it on purpose,remind him of something he told her,in one of their numerous conversations long ago,when there still plenty to speak of.
Behind the picture was the name of the picture the boy chose."The Dancing Baby",because in the picture it was the boy himself.It was him,in the picture,staring at this toy train his parents bought for him when he was young.She used to make fun of him,of his expressionlessnes,and how he retorted that he was doing an imitation of wood,a substract dance of sorts.Which was why,it was then,he decided to name the picture "The Dancing Baby".At the bottom of it,was a sentence written by her.It said,"To the boy who is always doing the same old dance..." The same old dance,the same old...
Why do we pretend,why do we act?For whose sake do we entertain,for whom do we aim to please?When you walk down the street,when you imagine her looking at you from around the corner,in somebody else's arms,why do you imagine yourself,to force yourself to think a certain way,to convince yourself that you are all right,that it is okay when it is in fact,not?
The masks we wear,to conceal a certain aspect of yourself,will one day breakthrough.And you will find yourself naked,not just the face,but all over.You then take refuge in the corner,hoping nobody would see you.And people dont,and nobody takes heed of you,and alone you remain.To be lonely,you shall.
Do we regret,or can we forgive ourselves for doing something?What is regret,when at that very moment of commitment,it all seemed justified,so right?What is there to regret,when you never had a chance to choose,no other options lie before you.Do we still,now,regret in doing so?Was it wrong to like,to obsess,to infatuate,to love?Was it a mistake,is it still,to love thyself in a knowing way,to fully understand the beauty of being mistakened,the beauty in a breakdown?
Why do we throw parties,to live a lie,when we are so deafened by the silence screaming inside.Do we have an explanation for our stupidity,or is it just an aspect of our willingness,acting upon our sanity.Do we will regret,can we still forgive,do we still remain pretentious?
He took the picture out of the plastic cover,and placed his palm upon the drawing.He could see the deep pencil marks still,the depression made from her strokes.He could feel it,and his hand remained,as if the touch of these depressions,these lines could somehow make him feel her again,to be whole again.
He then held it close to his face,and the smell of lead came.It was then,when his nose felt sour once more,the first time in a long while.The smell of her shampoo,her closeness was gone,only to be replaced and reminded by the smell of lead.So cold,and artificial at the same time.On his fingers,the lead stained.He rubbed the tip of his index and thumb together,hoping that they would come off.But at the same time,a dilemma.He didnt want them to go away,to disappear.He didnt want the feeling to be gone,like she did so many hours and days ago.He hesitated,and just before her mother knocked on his door to remind him of the time,he slotted the picture back into the cover and felt the room,closing the light on his way out and in a way,his mind as well.
"...Oh, Mrs. Dalloway.Always giving parties to cover the silence..."
- Richard Brown
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