it's a {mad} world [pinky]
Oct 1, 2012 1:29:40 GMT -5
Post by Lei on Oct 1, 2012 1:29:40 GMT -5
All around me are familiar faces
Worn out places, worn out faces
Bright and early for their daily races
Going nowhere, going nowhere
Worn out places, worn out faces
Bright and early for their daily races
Going nowhere, going nowhere
Crowds, I've found, can be worse even than the thick, stifling silence that comes with being alone. At least in solitude I am the only something within a confined stretch of nothing, my thoughts left to wander without hindrance and a whole teeming mind to myself. The modern world of smoke and smog, the churning of gears and the hum of machinery, voices rising above the cacophony of noise just to be heard- it’s overwhelming and scary. Surrounded by people- strangers and family and friends alike- you’re one of many, just another fish in the sea, faceless and insignificant to the rest of the world, and I spend too much time craving significance to deliberately cast myself into oblivion.
So when I find myself struggling to move within the endless swarms of workers on their way home from the factories- a steady current of faceless strangers all moving together like a horde of locusts- I push against the flow, forcing my way through warm bodies and stark faces, fighting to escape. I can’t stand the evening rush- try to avoid it as much as I can- but today I’m not so fortunate. All I see are the blank, tired stares of exhausted workers, the paint-streaked clothes of those coming from the dye factory as I am. As I am. My gaze is just as dull and my clothes are just as stained as the hundreds of people threading around me. The only thing that sets me apart is the desperation in which I refuse to sink into irrelevance.
Salvation comes in the form of a wooden door, the paint chipping from the weathered and splintering surface, the faded brass knob squeaking as I hurriedly twist it and push. A gust of cool air rushes out to greet me, heavy with the tang of rusted metal and the stale odor of dirty cloth and rags. A bell hung above the entryway lets out a faint tinkling noise as I step inside, and even the cheerful jingle sounds clouded with dust and age. The door closes with a click, and suddenly I’m shrouded in silence and the smell of antiquity. Safe. And alone.
For just a moment, I feel the tension in my shoulders loosen and relax, muscles coiled taught with anxiety unwinding, the awful panic that had begun to seep from my chest and into my veins draining away. I don’t notice creak of floorboards from somewhere behind me, the soft clicking of heels on smooth wood. It’s not until the sharp “Can I help you?” pierces through the haze of false security clouding my mind that I realize that I’m not as alone as I’dwishedthought.
The willowy form of the woman stands hunched over an old cash register, a face of sharp angles and cutting stares peering at me through thick, half-moon glasses perched atop a pointed nose. Her arms and neck are weighted down with stones and charms strung along dull silver chains, and it’s then that I notice that the entire wall behind her is adorned with similar amenities. In fact, the rows and rows of shelves that clutter the room are brimming with them, shabby wooden boxes overflowing with beads and lackluster chains hanging from wire racks. Funny, I can’t remember there ever being a jewelry store of all things in this part of the district.
The woman’s shrewd gaze pricks at my skin like fine needle-points, and I shift nervously under her scrutiny, looking at the floor, the ceiling, the paint crusted between the cracks of my fingernails, anywhere but her. I consider turning and leaving the way I came, but then the empty gazes and ghostly faces of the crowd flash through my mind and I decide that the shopkeeper’s penetrating stare is better than what lies behind the wall of wood at my back. Anything is better than that.
“I’m…just browsing.” The words fall from my lips in quiet murmur, laced with uncertainty. My gaze falls to my feet as they shuffle forward, the burning sensation on the back of my neck steadily picking at my conscience until the shelves finally- thankfully- conceal me from her hawk-eyed stare. At last, I find myself wreathed in the comfort of solitude, the stiffness in my limbs falling away into relief.
My fingers graze over the smooth, clouded shells of the beads and stones piled high in the boxes crammed onto the shelves, my color-stained fingertips just barely brushing the hazy surfaces. Each step creaks on the weathered wooden floorboards, eerily loud in the quiet of the shop. A thin layer of dust seems to coat everything, a square of sunlight illuminating the tiny particles as they float lazily in the air further down the row, and I wonder when was the last time the woman’s shrewd gaze fell upon another customer. Despite her and the musty scent of age that fills my senses, I feel more relaxed than I have all day. It’s so quiet here, almost peaceful, and my mind begins to buzz with senseless musings in an effort to fill the coveted silence that has fallen around me. I take a deep breath, stale air flooding my lungs as I absently roll a dark bead between my fingers, and I smile.
Something catches my eye further down the row, a tiny flash in my peripheral vision that momentarily snaps me out of my thoughts and thrusts me back into reality. My head turns, eyes roving curiously over the small square of shelf illuminated by the sunlight filtering in from between a hole in the rafters, where I thought I saw the flash. Light winks at me once again atop a pile of stones on one of the middle shelves, and I drop the bead back into the pile, the floorboards straining noisily beneath my weight as I stride towards the object of my attention. I pluck it from the mound of grayed stones and examine it closely, dark eyes appraising.
It’s a bracelet, the thin silver chain considerably less rusted than most of the metals in the shop. Little purple stones of varying shapes and sizes are suspended from it at odd intervals, and it takes just a few swipes of a finger over their surfaces to smooth away the dust and grime that had settled there over God knows how long. Between the stones hang small silver charms- a lighthouse, a key, a galloping horse. It feels nice in the palm of my hand, cool against my skin, and I lift it into the air and dangle it from between my fingers, watching in childlike wonderment as the light catches the silver of the chain and reflects within the deep purple of the stones.
Mother would like this. The change in my pocket- this month’s meager pay- suddenly feels much heavier, and I bite my lip as I slide the bracelet between my fingers. I remember a time, years and years ago, when my father had presented her with a necklace of dark turquoise stones on their anniversary. He’d been saving up for months, he’d said, and she had been so happy that tears had begun to brim the edges of her eyes. That necklace had been much nicer than the bracelet in my hands, but jewelry was jewelry, right? The change in my pocket is supposed to be for dinner tonight, but Father is getting paid today, too. Is it worth it?
I remember the joy in my mother’s eyes as father laid the necklace against her collarbone, and I decide that it is.
The shopkeeper all but snatches up the trinket as I lay it on the counter, forcefully punching in numbers on the register as I fish for the change in my pocket. I hesitate for just a moment before depositing every bit of it on the counter-top, chewing my lip nervously as she counts the pieces, heart thumping in my chest. She looks up at me, piercing eyes peering at me from above those half-moon glasses, and for a terrible moment I think she’s going to tell me that this isn’t enough (nothing ever is), but then she scoops up the coins and leaves the bracelet in their place. I snatch it off the counter quickly, as if she may change her mind and steal it away, and with a quiet “Thank you”, I shuffle from the register and out the shop door with the woman’s eyes watching me all the way.
A breath I hadn't known I’d been holding bursts from my lungs as the door shuts behind me, and my senses relish in the cool, clean autumn air. The streets are nearly empty now, just a few stragglers from the evening rush hurrying along the unpaved road that leads from the factory sector to the tenement houses. I stand for a moment outside the entrance to the jewelry store, uncurling my fingers to gaze down at the purple stones glittering up at me from the open palm of my hand. I think of how happy my mother will be when I give it to her, this obvious expression of my affection, and maybe, just maybe, for once my love will be reciprocated.
That’s all I’ve ever wanted.
Their tears are filling up their glasses
No expression, no expression
Hide my head I want to drown my sorrow
No tomorrow, no tomorrow
No expression, no expression
Hide my head I want to drown my sorrow
No tomorrow, no tomorrow
