Sometimes I feel invisible, she said. Like Im hardly even there at all. Im a faceless observer or a ghost and when people do look at me its like they see right through to the other side.
There is coffee burbling in the percolator and chairs scrape against the tiled floor. Her pen scribbles words across lined paper bound in a book she guards protectively with her arm, but no one notices. No one notices at all her hunched posture as if shes guarding against something. Eleanor Roosevelt once said, You wouldnt worry what people think of you if you knew how seldom they do. She knows its true. She imagines their eyes anyway, but theyre only looking at the ghost, the faceless observer.
A man is at the counter ordering a chocolate chunk cookie and a macchiato as he chats with the girl behind the counter. Apparently he knows her and his voice is loud as he laughs and she jokes and her friend beside the register joins in.
Her pen still scrapes across the paper. Sometimes she forgets that there are lives behind the people, the nameless faces, the unfamiliar voices. There are stories behind each. The slightly lost looking middle-aged woman and the two children who run between the tables giggling, they all have stories. Everyone has a story. Stories dont just exist on paper with ink or lead or bound within a book that smells of old leather. Stories walk the streets, stories live and breath.
But her pen deals in the imaginary worlds of ink and paper, but she doesnt forget the true tales that surround her. The ones that are lived, not told or written. They are her inspiration.
She writes about a child alone in a bookstore as spacious as a cathedral. The shelves upon shelves are packed tightly with books and her quiet footsteps and the rustle of pages are the only sound in the quiet-as-a-funeral-home room. Very few people are in the dusty library. The sunrays shine brightly though high windows making the particles of dust glitter. The child raises her small fingers as though to catch the glinting specs
The screech of a chair and her pen pauses over the page as a pretty Asian girl walks out of the café, coffee and books in hand. For a moment reality didnt exist, for a moment she was someone else in another world, but shes always invisible even there. And when she stands and walks out the café, no one looks up and if they do she knows they see right through her. Right to the other side because shes the observer, the story teller. The teller is never seen and never really there at all, theyre only a voice or only a string of words that tell someone elses story.
Since I'm short on art at the the moment I figured I'd post a bit of my writing. Just random scribbles. The result of spending too much time in the Barnes and Noble cafe.
I found this 3 years old poem by the most random method. It's truly beautiful!
that i deep, em. love it!
it's beautiful (':