Everything looked stormy earlier at 3 in the afternoon. She cannot stop laughing at how annoyed I look about the adamant sun blazing through the skies at 6 now. “What do you want to do?” she asks, sipping mentally strong coffee. We spend a while deliberating, moving through rooms, unable to decide what to do.
It is finally blue hour, and we’ve been sitting wordlessly for a while now. The unmonitored playlist has reached the slightly scary depths of Harris songs, but neither of us are ready to move yet. I can see her catch herself humming a little impulsively and roll her eyes at the recognition of what silly songs are playing. She then asks for a particular number and midway tells me why she’s unprepared to hear it fully, how many open wounds it has left behind. I listen.
She’s not been present really this evening, not in the same room as me, as her mind wanders to corners and crevices with high walls she’s probably been guarding for a while now. “It’s this work thing, the deadline is so close and changes are needed now...” she tells me, and I hum along, both of us fully knowing it’s not it, it’s not all, and it’s still okay. I can see her making an effort, struggling, to close her eyes and just be. I watch silently, wishing I could touch the feeling of unrest, wishing it were tangible enough for me to hold it, and hold it gently until however long it took to calm down, to pace down to normal breaths, until it could possibly match its heartbeat to mine, an audible proof that there’s mindful company even in that difficult stage of processing your pain where you acknowledge it, you are willing to process it, but you are unsure what to actually do. We watch the blues out the window dim down to greys, and the greys dim down to nothing, quiet specks of flickering far-away lights cropping up aimlessly. She says stupid, funny things. We laugh.
We are sitting on the floor, humming a song. She’s gripping the bedspread, I’m clutching at the camera now whirring frantically for plane of light for focus, pleading for mercy.
I put my camera down.
We sit quietly, together.
It is finally blue hour, and we’ve been sitting wordlessly for a while now. The unmonitored playlist has reached the slightly scary depths of Harris songs, but neither of us are ready to move yet. I can see her catch herself humming a little impulsively and roll her eyes at the recognition of what silly songs are playing. She then asks for a particular number and midway tells me why she’s unprepared to hear it fully, how many open wounds it has left behind. I listen.
She’s not been present really this evening, not in the same room as me, as her mind wanders to corners and crevices with high walls she’s probably been guarding for a while now. “It’s this work thing, the deadline is so close and changes are needed now...” she tells me, and I hum along, both of us fully knowing it’s not it, it’s not all, and it’s still okay. I can see her making an effort, struggling, to close her eyes and just be. I watch silently, wishing I could touch the feeling of unrest, wishing it were tangible enough for me to hold it, and hold it gently until however long it took to calm down, to pace down to normal breaths, until it could possibly match its heartbeat to mine, an audible proof that there’s mindful company even in that difficult stage of processing your pain where you acknowledge it, you are willing to process it, but you are unsure what to actually do. We watch the blues out the window dim down to greys, and the greys dim down to nothing, quiet specks of flickering far-away lights cropping up aimlessly. She says stupid, funny things. We laugh.
We are sitting on the floor, humming a song. She’s gripping the bedspread, I’m clutching at the camera now whirring frantically for plane of light for focus, pleading for mercy.
I put my camera down.
We sit quietly, together.
'Sierra' by Aasha Sriram, Sofar Chennai
