in the other me’s worldpublished: 2012-05-02
The Other Me envies The Original Me.
It’s The Original Me people should be listening to. She sings beautifully, in a silent voice that nobody hears. She used to write stories of lost love and forbidden desires, of running away. She used to draw buildings that could one day become the tallest in the world. She was scouted, once, on the streets. By someone who saw and who knew. Please, he said, just let me take one picture, just one. No, she said and disappeared into her room.
The Other Me desires, needs, asks attention. Cries for it, dances for it, writes for it. And writes, and writes. She screams when silenced, especially then. She decorates herself with feathers she has stolen from a peacock. Plucked him dry. She is louder still when afraid and she is always running outside, with no particular aim.
The Original Me is stuck in a tall and grey dilapidated building. The Other Me approaches it feeling remorse, knowing The Original Me is in there somewhere. In one of those rooms, row after row of rooms. Of concrete greys and faded shades of white. But one window stands out. It is open and so are the curtains. An orange sickle-shaped moon glows from the ceiling behind that window. The Original Me waves brightly from that window to The Other Me who is wet. It is raining outside, in The Other Me’s World.