the threads in her head

August-

The glint of raindrops on windows catches my eye, like the sudden sparkle of a hidden diamond that lies deep among some stone, with only one facet of it exposed. But alas, while the sparkle of a diamond speaks of hopes and beauty revealed, the snaky trail of a raindrop sliding down the vertical surface of the window pane only indicates the heavy storm, the lashing of angry raindrops upon the now, grey and dark earth. Passionate grey maidens high up in the sky weeps their violent tears, heavy and forceful, unleashing their anguish to the world below.

And like a comforting friend the earth stands still, quiet and supportive, allowing the wrathful rants plummet deep into its very core. Shaken and troubled on the inside, as frail and helpless, but it allows those heavy curses crash deep into it. It rights itself, steadying, keeping that upright posture. Only the ruffled waters reveal the turmoil, the clashing of chaos deep within.

I am but quiet too, looking on at this wild display. Though sheltered I am by huge structures of bricks and cement, the same whirlwind of emotions flow through my entire body, robbing it of vibrancy and previously known joys. It is almost comforting to look on at a display of sheer power and might, without any participation in it. A sudden gust of cold wind enters the room - my skin prickles, hairs on end as little goosebumps appear on my skin. An involuntary shiver runs down my spine.

But no one notices.

Trapped and confined by four walls, the mighty forces crash just a few metres outside, but the steady drone of an adult voice continues. Black ink on white board appears as the marker tip streaks across, first one stroke, then the other. Line by line, and letters appear, then to form words, which became sentences. So the strokes are seen as meaningless when looked at individually, but the entire picture comes to form something with meaning.

But does having meaning means it is meaningful?

I think of the wild dolphins that might be cruising along the waves a few thousand kilometers away. I think of the surfers, the sailors. But with a sudden pang I recall to mind the great distance that stretches out. Right now I am only here, in this classroom, securely on my seat. A big pink and grey bag lies at the foot of the table, but it contains no world of knowledge, only heavy piles of bound pages filled with symbols. It’s no time to rest yet.

Lack of sleep has had its toll on me. My head spins, and an occasional spasm of pain rocks my whole head at times. The desire to drop my head and close my eyes is strong, rocking my body with a power that could match the storm. I shake my heavy head, cringing at the pain it brings, but as dulling as the pain is, the sudden shock also renews me for a little while more. Only but a few minutes left to break-time. That’s when I can have my rest. That’s when I can seek momentary refuge.

Another shiver rocks my body as I sniff. I wish I had brought tissue. How cold can this get? Twenty-eight people in this one same room, but everyone caught up in their own little world. The girl sitting beside me is quietly writing away. Soft voices at another corner travel to my ear. Yes, they are living creatures with the same red liquid as mine flowing through their veins. The memory of a criticizing voice flows across my mind. Yes, they are living creatures with the capability to think.

The bell finally rings with its familiar tune. The teacher stops; I stand and give the commands to rise and greet. And this was it – break-time. A loud bright chatter fills the class, contrasting sharply with the gloom of the storm. I fish out my breakfast from my bag, and walk out of the classroom. The crashing sounds of rain hitting ground greet my ears.

I stand under shelter and wonder what it would be like to be out in this rain.