Le Mugissement

“…..dipping my tongue and hands into the paint can of my mind, I splatter gooey gobs of thought onto the wall, then watching as the rest of the world tries to make sense of my lovesick babble, and they come with black sharpies and try to connect the dots, forming man-made constellations from my nonsensical thoughts…”

Trying her hardest to properly reconcile her abstract movements and mild voice into a charm that only Sarah Kay could put into her words, she shrugged her shoulders on a missed note, again.

Moments later, the only thing she knew was her bellow that was piercing the walls of her sound-proofed room. She could hear people running through the corridor, and she knew she had to stop. But grief was a territory where the ruler was melancholy, and his might was beyond the control of the heart, brain, soul, flesh, bone, sinews, or even the agile fingers of a once-raging actress.

She decided to faint. Only if she knew how to fade away, Alas!

****

She woke up on her diamond bed with the cell phone vibrating a buzz of the sort that happy honeybees do, during the time of spring. The irony hit her hard on the face. She was in her autumn, and this wheel of time wasn’t the earth revolving; the incorrigibility of age was a factor she’d take some time adjusting to.

After a long buzz, like a bee which had taken its final flight, the phone dropped down silent. And the silence was too loud for her grimace, and she checked the cellular barrier.

The muse was abused again, not only by the grim thoughts of menopausal fibrousness, but also the call she had just missed. Nostalgia was taking over her, and she knew that it wasn’t good. She gathered up the courage to summon her feet to action, and locked the door, lest the rumbling servants may spot her flowing mascara.

Then, she let it go.

****

Her mental memoirs spoke of her in a Mugissement that developed into a skull-splitting migraine. She closed her eyes, and the wandering images just worsened the head-ache. She realized, her memories were crying for the acknowledgement they deserved; the love they had never received posts the separation. She finally let herself be carried into the dismayed world of the past, where every image was a sting, and every feeling was a stab. Yet, she bore it all, and bled out all, from the teary corners of her little eyes, which sparkled with the experience of a heartbroken lover.

Brooklyn night adieus were the most difficult to forget, and she was aware of the fact. Queer love had strange ties. She had tried tying her heart with the one of her riverine lover with the strands of her golden hair, yet the bosoms had collided, the knot had tightened into a noose, and the feelings had slackened.

The abstract metaphors didn’t help her anymore. As she washed off the make-up to reveal the tiny wrinkles, her migraine reached beyond her limits of tolerance. She felt like banging her head on to the wall and splash the wall with red. Oh, she realized red was the color of love. And anger. And, somewhere, death.

****

She looked at the mirror, the heartbreaker of all times. She had tried hiding her lines, and somehow, the mirror had always managed to catch her, unaware, and push her back into the times when she had jilted lovers everywhere. She looked into the mirror, and her eyes in the reflection reflected the face of her true love. Somewhere, she had abused her own muse by inflicting un-acceptance upon her bipolar self. While she was the lover, she was the loved. And she was the rose, and she was the one who plucked the rose. She was the spring, and she was the autumn.

And, in the confusion she reached the Brooklyn night where the river imminently lied to her. The face she reflected was different. All these years, she had loved that face.

And now, she loved the feeling of an artery being drained of love.

Both of the lovers were dead.