I think back to the day I first meet her, thinking about what she would be doing now, where she could possibly be. I know that hers, was a life filled with melancholy. Periods of great pain, pain that no one could ever understand. And periods of great joy, joy that no one could ever attain. For she was what everyone ever wanted. Her value could never be translated into another medium. Her value was in the form of filling the space inside us. To be able to take the shape, of the void that will inevitably consume us all.
However, she never felt happiness, the same sort felt by you or me. Happiness to her could never be translated to what you or I could understand. For her happiness, could never come cheaply. I often wonder what would have become of us if we had gotten together. If we would have had kids, if we could grow old with one another, if we could find joy in one another till the day we died.
I often wonder what has become of us. Us with our overly materialist views of the world. Us with our need and want of things both big and small, both emotional and physical. These things begin to consume who we are until we disappear into the ether.
Do we want to exist ? Or is it easier to give up, and let the world consume us ?
A streak of sadness comes over me, it shatters what solus I had taken in my lover’s arms. However temporary of a relationship ours would be, I would always remember her. Her slender frame and milk white skin only serviced to extenuate the grace she carried herself with. She was the antithesis of what woman had become today. She would still never compare to the girl of melancholy.
The girl of melancholy was there, here, and even in my dreams. Even now I ask myself, why ? Why did she ever turn into the person she is was ? Why did she choose to love the person she did ? It doesn’t matter anymore, nothing will matter to me anymore.
I wake my lover up, she greets me the smile and warmth of the sun. I can never understand why others do the things they do. I put on a mask of normality when with other people, especially for the woman I am with. However I am never too sure if they are also wearing one. We both laugh and enjoy each other’s company, I secretly hope. No, pray that she would just disappear. I wondered why she even decided to come home with me.
I am a man with no real face, just a closet full of masks. Maybe she wants to be with one the masks ?
She finally leaves and makes plans for us to meet again, I know I am never going to see her again. As I walk her out, into the now hot and humid air. The world has gone quiet. There are only the distant rumblings of cars and buses. The sound of children has waned, all that can be heard are the cicadas, and rustling of the leaves in the ocean breeze. It reminds me of my child hood.
I wonder what the girl of melancholy would think, if she saw me right now ? Would she like me more or less ? Would I finally be accepted by her ?
Its 6pm, I have spent the last few hours at work. I am not sure why they want me there. I feel like I am wandering through a graveyard of broken dreams. No one wants to admit that they have given up their dreams to work here. I see nothing but sadness as far as the eye can see, in both woman and men alike. I consider by self a ghost at work. I am shocked when people actually acknowledge my existence, every time they do, I want to ask, “Do you actually see me ?”.
I am the VP of … its not important. I am not really sure what is anymore. All I know is that I never really have to work, I simple put on a mask when needed. And perform the part I am asked to, sometimes taking the mask off is harder than the others.
People think I am someone to aspire too … I am not. I wonder if the girl of melancholy would say differently? Sometimes I wonder if she ever existed in the first place.
It was 1993 I was … I wasn’t important, however she was … I get a streak of angry whenever I think of it. She was wanted by every man that ever gazed upon her, in one way or another. And she was envied by woman everywhere. Me ? I sat down and watched it all unfold. I think that if god ever existed, he created people that existed to offset all the evil in this world. She was one of them, but to others she was simply an object to fill the void within themselves.
My reminiscing is interrupted by the same little girl, only now I see she has golden eyes. She’s with her mother, she gazes at me with a deep cold stare. I shrink down in my office chair, and pull the monitor in front of my face. Does she know I have no face ? I realize it’s 7pm.
My ritual for the night consists of a number of illicit substances to make me … normal? no … I am not sure any more. I put on my mask of pure chauvinistic ignorance, and walk down to Zanzibar. I see nothing but men to the left. They range in all ages, shapes, and sizes. Some look wealthy, others look strange, but the looks on their faces are all the same. I feel like I am about the cry. As I walk further in, I am greeted by the hostess, loud music, the darkness, and the neon lights. The hostess looks like all the girls on stage, except she has a smile and warm eyes that seem painted on. The smell of smoke hangs in the air, I take a sit next to an older gentleman, as I wait for my associates.
I order a Macallan and watch. I take a few sips of the drink. Why did I just order something that for all intensive purposes, taste like urine and paint thinner? I over hear a few of the men above me, say “Beer is proof god loves us” . I turn around, and I see a group of men in their mid-thirties. If god had loved us, why did he leave us defenseless against the devil ? Did the devil really exist ? Or did we create him to take the burden of virtue, off us.
The group of men only moments ago, had taken off their wedding rings. I wonder what their wives would do. Would they eventually forgive them? Would the part of them that once loved them die? Would they ignore it, and continue with a union that had lost its meaning?
The women in front of me, make me remember that the female form is one that can never be forgotten, can never be unseen, can never be improved upon. The women that dance on the brass poles are all … they are all … I am not sure what to say. They range from every color from ebony to ivory with skin as smooth as porcelain. They are the epitome of the female form, they are a sea of flowers in all the various tones of human flesh. The strobing lights in neon colors scatter in every which direction as they hit the gleaming skin of the woman before me.
I feel like I am the only one at Zanzibar that ever looks at floor. The floor has seen many, it has been there during the day and the night. It has been there when alcohol was spilt, when fights were broken apart. It has been stepped on by all the woman, and all the men. If the floor could talk I wonder what it would say ? After all the years it’s been there, what would it say about us?
I like it there. The music, lights, and the flowers made of flesh, all contribute to making you forget, forgetting who you are, what you are, where you came from, and why you walked in. I want to forget so much.
I like that it’s the only place I feel like no one can see me. The women on stage look like dolls dancing in the wind. Dolls that have no real eyes, mouths, or ears. The men stare at them, like they are looking into an abyss, waiting for answers to their life’s greatest questions, waiting and watching for something they know will never come. And I am just there … sitting staring at the floor.