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“It is the hand that wields the blade, which is never cut.”

Useless expressions like these are what always get me to think. I think about them in context; a samurai film, with its choppy quality and questionable voiceovers. It reminds me of the horrible despair that mirrors my relation to it. Brave heroes and warriors of legend battle nefarious evil and their own demons, setting aside their swords only to mock me, only to say “you will never be like us, you will never experience excitement, courage, adventure and glory the way we do, as you sit there in your modern living room, dressed in your cashmere house robe, 24.99 on the price tag. No, there will be no happy ending for you.” This is not entirely true, however. To say that I have no demons to battle, well my very existence is a kind of demon. What is one to do?-

What is one to do when they are trapped in a life of the utmost luxury: food education, work, things all readily accessible and at their fingertips? Does one complain about it- that they feel unfulfilled even with these commodities? “What of the children in Africa? Do you think they complain as their villages are ransacked and their families starve?” well then, does one protest? We are merely cogs in the system, bits of clockwork that serve the faceless machinations of society, merely cogs that are meant to eat, sleep, have children, and pay taxes? “What of anarchy? How would you like it if a man could walk into your home, kill you and your precious family, and make off with all of your things?” Then… does one resign?

Does one consign themselves to the ultimate tranquility of defeat, to truly accept the insignificance of their life and melt into sublime apathy as they wait for death? “What of hope? Is it not better to try for happiness, even if a lifetime of toil brings only a few sweet moments to the totality of one’s existence?” for all the thought I give this, I cannot banish my discontent. All I can do is hope that fate-if there is such a thing- holds brightness in my future. With this thought I shake my head and banish the mocking samurais from my TV screen. I can bear their sneers no longer.



The next day brings a soft rain that patters at my window. It is one of the few mornings when I wake up in a good mood, as I love the clouds. I hear many people say that they dislike this weather, and granted it can be dreary and utterly depressing at times, but on a day like today the clouds create a blanket of wonderful thickness that casts a silvery luminescence on those who would rest beneath it. Any who knew me so well to know my thoughts and preferences for weather might call me gloomy, or depressing. However it is simply untrue. At times, I feel an overwhelming contentment, a happiness that invades every corner of what I like to call my soul and addresses my mind with answers to any questions I can think. Unfortunately, this state of mind is fleeting. It is usually brought about through benevolence; when I desire to become someone who can help, who can spread relief and happiness to all people.

But who cares? That is the attitude my heart adheres to, as I find myself feeling once again deflated. Who cares about these people? Does anyone truly deserve to be served in this way? And how could I be happy if I sacrifice myself to serve others? But might I still be called gloomy, if I do indeed feel this way and in some cases act upon these feelings, if only briefly? I think not. If anything it shows my desire to lead a fulfilling life, my desire to find a suitable lifestyle to this end. As for my apathetic attitude? Is that not just a tool to which I cut away those moods that I ultimately feel will leave me empty?

I just don’t get it sometimes.



Disregarding these contemplations, I go down to my kitchen and brew coffee like I do every morning. The brown, vaporous liquid is in quick pursuit of my cold, plain cereal. Down the stairs of my building, I stand at a bus stop slick with wetness from the falling rain. I see the punctual Miss Dawson from 32B. A not-so-elderly looking woman (and by this I mean she is on the dusk of her middle agedness and the dawn of her descent into old age) who appears at this stop every morning at the same time. She wears old, outdated clothes, smells like… well the smell is implacable, neither good, nor bad. It is the scent that follows one from their home like a devilish red flag protruding from their garments and screams “this is the smell of me and my life, and as you can see, it is nothing special”. She looks old and wrinkled, maybe from a life of smoking or sun exposure, and wholly unattractive. I think “what is the meaning of this? How can such unattractiveness exist?” Will this lady be content to stay in her odd smelling house forever, knitting and feeding her cats? I doubt it. I also doubt that one such as her will find happiness in love. Her appearance would not be able to attract anything more than the grizzliest of suitors. And so that antagonistic voice speaks to me: “Is beauty not only skin deep? Can one not find attractiveness in the heart and the soul of a person, rather than their face?” Ah, I think, the age old consolation to the query, however if one- if anyone- is asked to think of true love, do they not envision beauty, for example a woman-or man- with raven, ebony hair that cascades like waterfalls and rivers down to the neck and eyes that shine with intensity of only the most brilliant diamonds, and a body and skin to match and complete the opalescence of such a magnificent figure? Or… does one imagine Miss Dawson from 32B? Whatever the case, I can be sure that the true love of mine-if there indeed is one- will be of a beauty I can appreciate. The bus rolls on the stop. The doors open, and I smile as I step aside to let miss Dawson board first. She smiles kindly in return, and sits at her regular seat adjacent to the driver.



I take a seat and watch the raindrops splatter against the pane of the window. My thoughts turn back to Miss Dawson. I see her with an utterly plain and boring expression on her face. Is she happy? I cannot tell. If it is true that there is a fate, a divine plan for all people, why is it necessary for Miss Dawson to be so god-awfully repellent? Furthermore, why is there any suffering? Why are there children who die? Unsettling thoughts like these make it hard to believe in any sort of fate or significance and are ultimately the root of my discontent. I look for ways to reconcile this. Cogito Ergo Sum; I think, therefore I am. Am I the only one who truly exists? Is everyone else here an illusion to stimulate me, and that’s why bad things happen to them? After all how can you truly know what- nay, if- someone else is thinking. I know I exist because if I were to think “I do not exist” there would have to be a me in existence to think it. But what of Miss Dawson? I cannot know that she thinks, or even truly exists. Is she an illusion to my senses? There is no way for me to know. It does not matter, however. My reason will tell me to believe others exists as it is the most rational explanation, and furthermore, how could I feel significant or happy if everything around me was a lie, an illusion, a hollow husk. Well, I think, another explanation splattered like a raindrop on the window I stare at. What if- What if, I think, the inconsistencies and inequalities we feel during life are compensated for in the afterlife, like reincarnation, or heaven? I wonder. They sound so nice but ultimately are disprovable and do not explain the nature or reason for life as it is. Splat. Another idea sundered on the glass of my mind.

The bus slowly pulls into the central hub, as steam slowly drifts off the wet, warm road, I depart.I take note of the people in the crowd: a man with a hat, a woman with a daughter, a daughter with a balloon. I wonder if any of these people hold answers to my questions; antithetic to my discontent, or are they all as simply ignorant as I?

I finally settle on the bench-like ledge that supports a large window and a young girl. The girl is blonde, of medium height and green eyes, sporting a black, crested blazer and a red plaid skirt. A high school student, I can relate. Time passes, and busses roll by. I begin to feel awkward from the speechless moments that continue on, slower than any bus or any snail, hour or season for that matter as there is nothing slower than a moment or series of moments that one would turn their impatience towards. We are both aware of it, or at least it appears that way because as I have stated earlier, it is impossible to know what or if another person is thinking. Two people so silent besides one another, and yet so painfully aware of each other. It is maddening. So I speak: “crappy weather we’re having, eh?” The fact is, I love the weather, but I know better than to share my odd fancies with people and expect them to understand. She looks at me, unfazed, as if she knew and expected me to break the ongoing silence. “Yea…”

-Is that it!? Is that all this wretched girl will say, after I so carefully employed a conversation starter tailored to fit her? After all, I could have said “God! I do love this overwhelming grey, damp wet weather we’re having” (of course when I put it that way it does sound bad) or “Don’t you feel like your education is pointless, I mean none of us know what our lives are about, shouldn’t we spend our time trying to figure that out instead?” Now I resolve to try again, this time I will get her to speak and drive away this awful silence. ‘Not one for conversation, are you?” I smile. There, I have done it. I have called her out on her wretchedness, her conceitedness for all to see. My smile, it is not of friendliness or politeness, it is of victory!



She smiles back.



This, I was not expecting. Has she realized my plot; my plan to drag her thoughts from her? Her smile is that of a hyena, or some other deranged beast. She is up to something. This I know-I know it surely as if it were painted as clearly on her demeanor as the clouds are upon the grey sky-but I hush my thoughts as the time has come for her to speak. “I’m actually kind of shy” she chuckles half-heartedly “did you wanna talk about something?” This answer, or this question, I should say, seems innocent enough, although I am still unsure of her intent. I can still see that beastly quality in her bright smile; I still expect a forked tongue to reveal itself from behind those rounded lips. She is like the others: offering friendly hands and friendly smiles, but truly she is out to hunt and maim. I will test her, I think. I will offer her my true thoughts; expose my neck to her mysterious smile. This way, through her reaction, I will know what she really is.

“I feel like life is pointless.” I sigh, and look away dejectedly. Now, now I will know the truth. She stares at me somewhat stunned. Then, with a concerned face says “why do you think that?” I turn to her. She appears caring and genuine; she wants to know the nature of my melancholy. She might have insulted me or turned away. But no. She is one who cares. “Well” I say, “it’s just there’s so much pointless shit in this world; people starve and die young, people suffer, and why? I can come up with no answer.” Her face of concern does not change. She moves in closer and puts a hand on my shoulder. Yes, she puts a hand on my shoulder, to think she could be so benevolent as to do such a thing. I am certain now that I misjudged her. No longer is there a hidden forked tongue or beastly snarl in her face, just the beautiful caring face of a young woman. “There are many tragedies in life but all we can do is press on and try to find our own meanings, our own things to protect.” I smile. At her words, a genuine smile, not of victory or other conceited origins. “I never got your name by the way.” She smiles, and tells me it’s Sheena. I kindly tell her mine in turn. We talk more of things like school, weather and philosophy until her bus pulls in. She gets up to leave but I feel I must spend more time with her. So I ask her, innocently “maybe you’d like to get together sometime?”



Her smile widens.



It is a wicked, deathly smile. One of which could scarcely be seen on the most demented of countenance, witches and other nefarious things even. The beastly snarl returns and the forked tongue reveals itself. Then, as if in a maniacal howl, she speaks: “sorry, I don’t think it would work.” She crosses the steam ridden roads and disappears a face in the crowd. I sit, on that ledge, bleeding. Bleeding a wound so unfathomably deep it could be described no other way than mortal. If only I had realized, guarded myself against her, rather than exposing myself so carelessly. As I sit and bleed for hours upon that ledge I think “It is the hand that wields the blade, which is never cut.” I laugh stupidly. “Why didn’t I listen?