Sorrow like a ceaseless rain
Beats upon my heart.
People twist and scream in pain,—
Dawn will find them still again;
This has neither wax nor wane,
Neither stop nor start.

People dress and go to town;
I sit in my chair.
All my thoughts are slow and brown:
Standing up or sitting down
Little matters, or what gown
Or what shoes I wear.

I hold myself still and sew my lips shut with the transparent and durable thread of patience, tolerance and will. I swallow: the bitter words get stuck in my throat. It gets easier with time.

Sweet is the satisfaction of flinging the words out like hard-baked clay stones from a catapult. And sweet is the sight of seeing them hit their mark perfectly. But sweeter still, the victory of thwarting an inner demon and the peace which comes with gratifying your conscience.

Because sometimes, it’s better in than out.

From the outside the stone is a riddle:
No one knows how to answer it.
Yet within, it must be cool and quiet
Even though a cow steps on it full weight,
Even though a child throws it in a river;
The stone sinks, slow, unperturbed
To the river bottom
Where the fishes come to knock on it
And listen.

I have seen sparks fly out
When two stones are rubbed,
So perhaps it is not dark inside after all;
Perhaps there is a moon shining
From somewhere, as though behind a hill—
Just enough light to make out
The strange writings, the star-charts
On the inner walls.

Nobody that matters, that is. Distant relatives of course
Die, whom one never has seen or has seen for an hour,
And they gave one candy in a pink-and-green stripèd bag, or a jack-knife,
And went away, and cannot really be said to have lived at all.

And cats die. They lie on the floor and lash their tails,
And their reticent fur is suddenly all in motion
With fleas that one never knew were there,
Polished and brown, knowing all there is to know,
Trekking off into the living world.
You fetch a shoe-box, but it’s much too small, because she won’t curl up now:
So you find a bigger box, and bury her in the yard, and weep.

But you do not wake up a month from then, two months,
A year from then, two years, in the middle of the night
And weep, with your knuckles in your mouth, and say Oh, God! Oh, God!
Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies that matters,—mothers and fathers don’t die.

And if you have said, “For heaven’s sake, must you always be kissing a person?”
Or, “I do wish to gracious you’d stop tapping on the window with your thimble!”
Tomorrow, or even the day after tomorrow if you’re busy having fun,
Is plenty of time to say, “I’m sorry, mother.”

To be grown up is to sit at the table with people who have died, who neither listen nor speak;
Who do not drink their tea, though they always said
Tea was such a comfort.

Run down into the cellar and bring up the last jar of raspberries; they are not tempted.
Flatter them, ask them what was it they said exactly
That time, to the bishop, or to the overseer, or to Mrs. Mason;
They are not taken in.
Shout at them, get red in the face, rise,
Drag them up out of their chairs by their stiff shoulders and shake them and yell at them;
They are not startled, they are not even embarrassed; they slide back into their chairs.

Your tea is cold now.
You drink it standing up,
And leave the house.

I attack you with sharp, biting words. And this is the most puzzling thing of all: do I attack you as the needy child looking for attention, sulking because I don’t get the things I want? Or am I attacking you as the woman, showing my power, asserting my independence? Showing that I, too, can say bitter things that are real. The only accusations which hurt are the ones based in truth.

I revel in my independence; I wallow in the hurt of your negligence. I enjoy my solitude; I hate your indifference. I like pretending I’m a mystery, I feel a profound loneliness: you can’t relate to me. I’m glad my passions, my dreams are my own, but I wish, so badly, that for once, you would understand.

I am two opposing forces.
Inside me, a war wages in each second of anxiety, every moment of distress.

Is it any wonder that I make a lot of mistakes?

Yes, she had always admired people who were good at sports. But that’s not why she liked him. She liked his big square face and his lanky body. She liked the dimple in his chin, his gravelly voice. She admired his years of hard work more than the numerous medals he had won.

She liked how easy it was to talk to him. She liked that he offered her a bar of chocolate he had bought for his friends. She liked when he asked, ‘Are you on Facebook? Add me.’ She wondered if it was the new way of expressing your interest in a girl you liked.

While coming back after dropping him at the railway station, she looked out her window and smiled. Was he thinking of her as the train sped through the night? Did he notice her beautiful scarf, her white shoes? Was he thinking of her smile? Did he notice her pimple, so pink on her white skin? Ugh! I hope not! she thought.
She smiled the whole evening.

***

He looked out the window of the train, trying to see the blackness rushing past. All he could see was his face reflected in the glass. He shrugged, sat back comfortably on his seat, and proceeded to promptly fall asleep, drooling on the blue leather of the railway seat.

I saw you a few times during the day, but you were always occupied: with someone; walking purposefully or running down the stairs. Finally I saw you sitting down, and I resolved to ask you if we could talk alone for a minute. I stood in front of you and called your name softly. You could not see, would not look at me. So preoccupied in telling your friend something. I was invisible.

I walked back, my shoulders painfully straight, the hope to make your day fading softly in my heart. I sat down on the cold floor next to my friends, my spine curving as I hugged my legs, and I watched with blank eyes as the kids danced on stage.

She’s a work of art put in the wrong frame. It clashes with the muted colors of the canvas, undermining its beauty. This frame brings out the vibrancy of the bright colors of other paintings, but it makes her look dull. The loveliness of the painting doesn’t disappear, it’s just diminished. Gems shine even in the wrong settings.

She waits for the day she’ll be moved to the right place, the element where she belongs. The frame which complements the artistry in her, brings out the gloss of her colors; the finesse of the strokes. A polished gem, placed on black velvet; she will dazzle everyone who looks at her by her brilliant sheen. People will look at the painting, on the right wall, in the right frame, and be struck speechless.

Find your element and shine.
Your talent deserves it.

Who am I? They often tell me I would talk to my warden freely and friendly and clearly, as though it were mine to command.

Who am I? They also tell me I would bear the days of misfortune equably, smilingly, proudly, like one accustomed to win.

Am I then really all that which others tell me, or am I only what I know of myself, restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage, struggling for breath, as though hands were compressing my throat, yearning for colours, for flowers, for the voices of birds, thirsting for words of kindness, for neighbourliness, trembling with anger at despotisms and petty humiliation, tossing in expectation of great events, powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance, weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making, faint and ready to say farewell to it all.

Who am I? This or the other? Am I one person today and tomorrow another? Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others, and before myself a contemptibly woebegone weakling? Or is it something within me still like a beaten army, fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?

Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine. Whoever I am, Thou knowest, O God, I am Thine.

I must do as you do? Your way I own
Is a very good way, and still,
There are sometimes two straight roads to a town,
One over, one under the hill.

You are treading the safe and the well-worn way,
That the prudent choose each time;
And you think me reckless and rash to-day
Because I prefer to climb.

Your path is the right one, and so is mine.
We are not like peas in a pod,
Compelled to lie in a certain line,
Or else be scattered abroad.

‘T were a dull old world, methinks, my friend,
If we all just went one way;
Yet our paths will meet no doubt at the end,
Though they lead apart today.

You like the shade, and I like the sun;
You like an even pace,
I like to mix with the crowd and run,
And then rest after the race.

I like danger, and storm, and strife,
You like a peaceful time;
I like the passion and surge of life,
You like its gentle rhyme.

You like buttercups, dewy sweet,
And crocuses, framed in snow;
I like roses, born of the heat,
And the red carnation’s glow.

I must live my life, not yours, my friend,
For so it was written down;
We must follow our given paths to the end,
But I trust we shall meet—in town.