His eyes were sparkling blue with half amuzed fury, hands restless in his lap, one foot stamping impaciently on the floor. “Come on, take another look, summon back your senses! ” But the difference of opinions had only brought up an unshaken conviction in me.
People are islands and each one of them holds the secret to his own blooming or undoing in the back of her mind, in the back of her expressionless eyes. I see people in the streets every day, I see them strolling along the Danube, shuffling lazily in the shops, looking for nothing or maybe looking for everything. Who knows, I am nobody to make assumptions. Most of the times I just see them, I don’t actually “see” them, I fail to grasp the meaning of their sometimes living eyes. Each one of us is an island and each one of us is a story which can never be fully unveiled.
Like Calinescu’s famous feminine character, Otilia, puzzles and pushes Felix to the shores of patience, questions and apprehension, so does he and so does she when they shove me out of their tell-tale midday walks. You can imagine you know a person, you can think you understand her defects, her joys, her smiles, but the word “understand” seems to be barking up the wrong tree when it comes to human character. For what are human characters more than simple projections, effortless reflections of the one the who is “other”, the one who is standing on the other side of that furious blue gaze?
Otilia did not try to be more than she was, it was not her intent to deceive or to screw up Felix for that matter. She was just the only being who could be: a woman. Notice the lack of characterization. She was not plain nor complex, typical nor extraordinary, mundane nor exceptional. She was in the end just a woman struggling in a society which could otherwise be taken for a human comedy. His mistake was that he tried to contain her, her mistake was that she thought for a short time that she could be contained. Freedom of mind can never be the subject of the heart rhythms, of the everyday passion. And because she had the freedom of mind and the freedom of spirit, it was in her purity of vision that she chose the comfort of life over the comfort of heart.
Her choice is not to be judged, but maybe to be learned from, to be thought upon. But in the end making once choice or the other is not what is really important. What truly crucial is, is that your story lives through you and you live your story. We are each our own mistery, our own challenge, our own hidden key under the carpet of the front porch. I see the gaze and I see the tall forhead, but I’m not sure if I want to truly unlock the door or if I even have the right to do that. I know, however, what I want to do. Gather scraps of the story and bind them together. The result will not be him though. It will only be a simple projection, en effortless reflection.
“Yellow! What yellow, yellow screams death! Green is life, green is spring, we should definitely go with green” he continued when I gave no answer. The caress in the blue of his eyes had already lifted my spirits. Who cares if they’re yellow or freaking green. “I’ve got a better idea though” I said with an evil smile. “We should paint them red, it is Easter after all”. He hugged me, giving up.