Listening Snow

III

Life couldn’t be any more unfair to her.

She was not beautiful, not unique, hardly talented - just a girl who knows how to hold clay and splash colors across a white surface -, she was not married, annoyingly single and not being sought after for any reason and evidently in the wrong time and era. Do not discount

No, she mused desolately as she sank onto the bench by the park, things weren’t really working out. At all.

She glanced about her and wondered how the darkness can court the daylight so harmoniously they never – or very very very rarely – run into each other. None outshone the other. Each unique in its strength. If only the yin and Yang of her life could emulate such awesomeness. But no, they just had to murder themselves at all times. She, she found, was tired of burying and then, mourning a part or two of her life. It wasn’t such a fantastic way of life.

But there again, that’s her very own lot in life as her sleep-and-rest-deprived presence in the park at 2:58am evidently pointed out.

If only life were somewhat different for her.

A day of painting and mounding, and selling – alright so that’s the sunny side of her day. She had enrolled rather reluctantly for an art showcasing in the community which was hosted by, she now knew as something something Art Foundation. There she couldn’t ever get the name right. Well, the enrollment had cost a fee she had fought, poked at and cursed herself endlessly for a week and two days before coming to terms with. Instructing herself on the mantra that money comes and goes. A school of thought she detested as money came much much slower to her than it left her. And so, the day – today – had come and she had taken what she had called her batch of ancient Chinese pottery.

At first it hadn’t been anything but a name until the announcement had come declaring her batch of Chinese pottery the unrivaled winner of the showcase.

Hence the speedy sale of her artwork and a group of a lanky tall man, a stout man and a bird-faced woman, a pigeon perhaps, breathing down her neck with papers for her signature to validate the sole display of her artworks in some place the name had as well failed to stick.

She fled of course. Typical of her recluse highness -, waiting bars and fighting back panic and tears and she was nowhere near her bed for even a few hours much needed rest. Instead she was languishing alone and in the predawn in the park.

She rolled her head back against the back of the bench and shut her eyes with a heavy sigh.

Maybe she shouldn’t have finally dated August, who was her longtime heart rob and crush and had treated her very poorly prior and during the unfortunate series of events that had been their three and a quarter month old dating – for him and courtship for her as she had built marriage castles in the air – and worst was that he even had a way of making her relive all those experiences the more now that they were no more and history.

Yet she still kept their chats and text histories. She still listened to every recording of their every phone calls. More to the point of painful reality, her phone calls to him. She was a pathetic emotional cripple and she knew more than anyone meaning and mooning over Augusta was not just foolhardiness but unadulterated idiotic maliciousness to herself.

Because…..