Feeling, Reason & Love.

I live on planet Feeling:
It is wild and deep and unforgiving
its power and beauty
lie in its simple authenticity.
You live on planet Reason:
It is neat and square and perfect
And one path leads to another quite logically
There are no surprises, no absurdity.
The sun called Love does shine on us equally:
It brings to light those landscapes
On planet Feeling that seem dangerous to me;
And reveals some cracks in those tracks
You never quite were aware enough to see.
I see you from Feeling, rejecting the light
And you see me from Reason, rejecting the sight
Of the sun that on us generously keeps on shining:
We may cover up its rays or hide from it
But true Love like the sun, once there never leaves.

the present.

The bell rings, and the room fills with the sound of chairs scraping the floor as the class of students eagerly gets up to escape to recess – except for one student, who packs her bag, pushes back her chair, stands up, and readjusts her skirt with uncommon slowness, and who seems to hesitate about leaving the room.

The last hour she has paid the teacher her almost undivided attention to the content he was presenting. She has listened, almost as perfectly as usual. She has contributed and participated, almost to the same extent as usual. It is doubtful that he should have noticed any difference in her behaviour on this day compared to other days.

And yet, today is different.

Today she did not look up at him so much. And today she doodled more on the corners of her worksheets. She was more fidgety, shuffling this way and that in her chair. Sometimes she seemed more absent-minded (just not long enough for him to see), her gaze lost on the floor or to the view outside the window. She picked at her skin more violently, and under the table, her knee bounced up and down in nervous agitation without her even realising. She got more answers wrong – more careless errors in her work – and it took her longer to figure things out, longer than usual.

Today was – is – different.

Getting up from her chair without the same level of rush and excitement at her peers, she secretly gauges how long it will take him to make his way out of the room. She sees him collecting various papers, lining them up nicely to fit his much-used leather case. He erases the whiteboard, slips his pen in his shirt pocket, checks the air-con is switched off, and finally seems ready to get going. Just at this moment, she leaves the room, pretending not to be waiting for him. He still does not suspect a thing.

Now in the corridor, she takes baby steps away from the room, and as soon as she hears the sound of the door shutting, being locked, and his own footsteps approaching her, she turns on her heels.

“I – I have something for you,” she stammers as she swings her backpack around and sinks her hand in the front pocket to retrieve an oddly-shaped package, odiously wrapped in music manuscript paper. She stares at her gift, feeling her cheeks blush, not so much from this act of giving but from the sad appearance of the gift itself.

“Thank you.” He takes the gift from her slightly shaky hands. He does not seem to mind this thing that he has just received, for he knows not what lies within the paper, nor the feelings that led this young girl to accomplish this act. He gives her a smile, wishes her a good recess, and goes on with his day.

It may have been a normal day for him, but for her, today was different.

conversation at work. {her}

Sitting on the couch in the staff room, I indulge in daydreams of him, as I always do. I imagine him walking in the room right this moment, and how we would say hello, and be polite and civil towards one another, carefully treading that fine line that separates distance from intimacy and acquaintance from friendship. I know we would say little that truly mattered, and leave out all the words that do matter. But I know also we would be glad to see one another, and somehow make the most of those few minutes shared together.

Oh, here is his voice I hear! He must be in the next room – so close, and yet so far from me! I itch to get up from my seat and make my way to him; and at the same time, I wish to disappear out of sight should he suddenly burst in to this room. I long to see him; I dread to see him.

Someone is walking outside the door and my eyes, in their unconscious habit, look up to check who it is. It is him. Of all people. It is him, him who I had been daydreaming about just a minute ago. And no amount of daydreaming ever prepares me properly for the experience of simply being in front of this person. Overwhelmed by surprise, anticipation and nervousness, not a word can come out of my mouth. I can only smile. He smiles back, and walks on.

But then he comes back, and I realise it is so that he can speak with me for a little while. I feel very touched, which only overwhelms me further, and makes it harder for me to speak.

“How was your student?”

“Oh, not too bad … some weeks are better than others,” I manage to say. Just as in my daydream, my heart is racing rather uncontrollably. “And how is your exam marking?”

“It’s all done”, he says with a deep sigh that lets me know how relieved he is to have this burden off his shoulders, “but now I have to do all the reports.”

I want to say something, but no words come to neither mind nor mouth. There is that discomfort I always feel with him, of having to speak like we are mere acquaintances who are learning one another’s ways. This small talk is so hard – not because it is uninteresting, but because neither him nor I are cut for it. There should not be small talk between us, but it is the only choice we have, to have any talk at all.

“I am playing in the concert next week,” I say finally, finding his gaze again as this a safe, comfortable topic of conversation.

“So I heard. I will be playing the organ.”

“Oh really? I’m excited!!” I say before I have the time to contain my emotions. How had I not envisioned this?! That I will get to perform in a concert with this glorious and beloved soul? How blessed I am! I hope he will not see as far into my feelings as my smile is capable of taking him. But just to be sure, I look away from his kind, warm gaze and lean back into the couch as if to melt and disappear in it.

“Well, it was nice to see you,” he says as we make eye-contact one last time.

“You too.”

And off he goes, and my day’s been made.

Read Conversation at work {him} for his side of the story.

conversation at work. {him}

As I stride past the room, our eyes meet, as if she had been expecting me all along. It takes me a moment to realise it really is her, but it is Wednesday after all, and she is always here on Wednesdays. I retrace my steps and make my way to the door. She looks up from the notebook in which she had been writing. I can vaguely remember her, ten years younger, walking through these halls and corridors in uniform – she used to write back then as well.

I am once again struck by her ethereal appearance. A headband is keeping her straight long hair away from her face, forcing it to fall down her back like a calm cascade of dark gold. There is a shy smile on her lips, as if she wanted to smile more, but for some reason was not letting herself to. There are no hard lines, no frowns on her face, giving her a very calm, innocent and almost childlike air which contradicts her unique resilience and wisdom that can be picked up on if one looks in her green eyes deep enough.

“How was your student?” I inquire as she slowly puts the lid back on the pen.

“Oh, not too bad … some weeks are better than others …” Her eyes dart around the room and cross mine every once in a while, like butterflies that take flight again as soon as they land on a flower. “And how is your exam marking?” She asks me, readjusting her position on the couch to better face me. I see that her cheeks have gone a little pink.

“It’s all done – but now I have to do all the reports.”

She nods and looks down, though there is still the shadow of a smile on her face. Poor girl, she is clearly very nervous, and I wonder why. How can she comfortably confess so much on a piece of paper, yet remain so utterly quiet, secretive, and perhaps as a consequence, all the more captivating, when in person?

“I am playing in the concert next week,” she eventually says, turning back to me.

“So I heard.” Her eyebrows raise. “I will be playing the organ.” Her eyebrows raise even higher, her shy smile widens.

“Oh really? I am excited!” As soon as she says this, she looks away again, realising that her words reveal a depth of feeling I know she always tries to hide.

I wish I could tell her it was okay to feel, even those things she feels for me; and that she shouldn’t doubt herself so much, because it is really quite a pleasant experience talking with and to her. I wish she knew and believed what a lovely person she is. Yet I feel unable to pronounce such things, no matter how frequently they pass my mind, each and every time I see her. All I can do is be kind to her, and hope that my kindness gradually translates all those things I want to tell her.

“Well, it was nice to see you,” I offer as a good-bye.

Her green eyes again find mine – I cannot read them, they are like a whirlpool of emotion.

“You too.”

{writing about myself from someone else’s perspective … fun! Don’t know how much of the character’s thoughts & feelings I have guessed accurately!}

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