There’s a man —a marionette control by some invisible forces, perhaps?— at my work place. I see him almost daily as our paths would cross during our breaks; hands in a tight fist, arms wedged to the erect body as, if fearful of making the wrong movement, or liberate the soul imprisoned within himself—a soul trapped in its own embodiment; perhaps too weak to move, or move in freedom?
So fragile this man appears to be, in such appalling shyness that it is almost painful to watch him. And there are deep secrets carefully kept inside this cocoon made out of coyness so great. I know it, because I can perceive the exposed soul; a harmless spirit; innocent almost at times; yet, terrifying too.
And I’m almost frightened to look straight into those eyes, for fear of uncovering a pain and anger that, albeit hidden, are already too obvious, and fear that I may shatter him to pieces, shall I peek into his eyes longer than I should.
It’s almost painful—this coyness; this introversion that cometh forth with such force from a foundation that should be hidden within one’s soul; so strong is this attribute in this man, that it devoid him of that invisible protection which usually keeps the soul from being naked and unexposed.
My heart goes out for him every time we cross our ways.
And then there is Molly—the absolute princess of yesterdays. We happened upon each other by pure coincidence a day or two ago… after so many years.
I’ve always find it odd how that one first impression you get out of certain people on that first meeting would stick to our recollections despite the years and demises of time. I call those first impressions the “forevermore memories” because, well, they just never die. You’ll take them with you to the grave.
And thus, seeing Molly again was like taking a trip back in time to a long ago yesterday; to the delicate and diaphanous Molly; the flirtatious Molly, slim and fit in her lime-green muslin summer dress; golden curls, lips of carmine and a sassiness way beyond her years. A past that could have never been more far from the present reality. But there she was—still the same Molly of yesterdays.
Does the spirit changes too, like our bodies do? Like the body, does it melt, does it change, and becomes distorted and aged and so resentful and bitter that it cannot produce a single smile or find a single joy? It shows. The soul slips through the body and becomes seeable.
It was sad to see that long ago happy Molly in the evidently unhappy Molly of today.