As many writers know, it is oftentimes easier to write objectively about the stories of one’s characters than the stories of one’s own life. A writer might never blantanly disclose their true feelings, but instead, wrap reality into literary devices. Jotted down this piece today, in an attempt to capture that creative process.
I watch the world spin beneath my feet, playing like a silent film. I read the lips and expressions of passerby, deciphering their inner dialogue in every half smile and raised brow. I imagine their pain and passion, their love and lust, their hurt and happiness.
All the while, my own thoughts on these complicated matters stand meekly in the back of the room. Stories to be told, patiently waiting their turn to be revealed, yet breathing a deep sigh of relief every time they are not called to attention. After all, it is much easier to write the story of the world outside than the world within, to watch the silent film rather than partake in it.
The film plays on. A coquettish wind teases the branches of a sententious sycamore tree, convincing it to abandon the cover of its leaves. Vines climb through brick walls, daisies push through in cracks in the sidewalk. My own thoughts begin to nudge their way through the crowd, moving to the front of the room.
Dusk falls, as I continue to write, the sky now a paper moon hung against a black-velvet curtain. I wonder if the moon craves a light all its own, or if it is content to be acknowledged at the sun’s whim.
Aren’t humans, caught in the pitfalls of passion, the same? Isn’t some light better than none, in a darkened sky? Does the moon settle for less light than it desires, or is it content with the indecisiveness, the distance of the sun? Why must the moon choose this sun, this solar system, when there are so many stars? Or is it simply afraid to venture into the darkness of the universe alone? After all, it is just a little moon.
The thought is dismissed, once again falling silent in the back of the room, blushing from speaking out of turn, yet emboldened by the voice it found amongst the passerby. Content, for a moment, to watch the silent film.
Yet the thought continues to whisper, spreading a notion to those whom also wait in silence. Perhaps there is more to the moon’s tale, than this black and white silent film. Perhaps there is more to the film than passivity. A light, a color, a song; clear, vibrant, symphonic. A masterpiece surrounding the moon, pushing its way through the mundane. An intimate, extraordinary here, separate from the now.
A story. My own.
Thanks for reading,
x. Natasha Overin
P.S. Want to read more of my writing? Follow @thevoguemermaid on Instagram!