The loner sits, with a cup of tea in one hand, two teaspoons sugar just the way she likes it. People in the background are heard, talking about mundane chores, and of the boring routine of the changes that precede life, what we commonly refer to as life.
The loner observes. People and their energies, people and their vibes. Some render perfectly positive ones, others state the pain and grief that pulls them towards itself all the time. She feels a general nausea in the air, I perceive it to be the state of depression, trying to eliminate it’s existence inside of me.
She looks out the window to the once cheery and colourful garden of flowers. The rusty air and the bees sting out the very juice from the flower petals, as they sit silently, hiding secrets and being their discreet little selves, bowing to the ground, as if they no more feel the urge to live anymore; as the one who nurtures them is gone, forever.
There is a stillness, there is a dead silence prevailing all around the house. The agitation, the spiritedness and the vigour are long gone, sleeping in the grave with a beautiful mind, with a beautiful soul.
There is an intertia, a lethargy around. She seeks desperately for his presence, anywhere and everywhere around the house, as people talk about life: after, before, later; the past, the present and the future is being discussed monotonously.
The turmoil is felt, in the voices, in the beings. She hears a carpenter nearby, furnishing, building, using away his equipment, making a meagre noise as he does so. She listens to the hustle bustle outside on the roads; the gate to the house is open. Bikes and cars are seen passing by, each carrying with them lives of their own, beings. Beings connected together through love and through lust and through flesh and through blood, piles of flesh sitting, talking about life and their monotonous, same mundane lives; piles of flesh talking about the same boring old changes that precede their last days on this earth, piles of flesh waiting for the day they reach the ground and sleep a sleep forever, too.
The loner sits, she prolongs the last sip of tea and puts the cup in the saucer. She breathes a sigh of relief, a sigh of help, perhaps, breathes out a sigh in hopes of someone hearing her out and letting it all go. She does not know what she has to say, she does not know what she wants, and perhaps, the only thing she wants right now, is to live in the smell of the dead flower gardens and the people talking in the background and the carpenter furnishing away with his machinery.