‘Elevators, the inconspicuous locale of things paranormal,’ I thought, my eyes glazed as the split doors of the elevator opened unsynchronizedly, one half of the door rushing past quicker than its twin, almost in a race of sorts. I took notice of some vegetation on one corner of the elevator, inspecting it closely revealed that it was a bloom of tiny, blue flowers. This brought about some peace in me as I left the scene. I kept walking on the vacant road as the blazing sun atop was my only company. The faint sound of my footsteps against the hard, heated concrete was only amplified due to the lack of any civilization. So as to mock my lack of company, the sun began to cast abnormally large shadows. Soon they started stretching and bending into a slow dance. Taking shapes that were not before. My own shadow started to feel sticky to me. The undulating shadows of closed shops and estranged vehicles seemed to shun all commotion. As I approached the sea shore, I looked onto the crashing waves. Despite my close proximity to the crashing waves, they were eerily silent. The mute waves seemed to wam me of a celebration. The isolated mounds of wet sand under the pale, dry and pastel sky gave the scene a clay like feel. This was a scene that grew ever rarer in this beach, for the many times that I came here, a theatrical performance remained a tacit agreement.
The sea and sky would clash in what was ultimately a vegetative turmoil, slaying each other barefoot, with palms softly dusted with white, granular flour till both surrendered to each other, in firmamental traffic, gripping each other in a delicate tangle, leaking an unseasonal light at their ceremonial axis. It was then that they became a singular clothe - bruised and wet. All surrounding colour and clamour rose an octave higher. The blind sea - pitch black with white, foamy hemming rushed to veil the collapsing firmament, to save it from disgrace, like a helpless father.
This reminded me that this is where I last saw X. In the later months, I had already stopped frequenting the shore to see her before stopping completely. During that time she bore an intransigent request to go and watch a case in the court to which I agreed out of confusion. The case itself was some petty theft, but it was a crime done not out of necessity nor devious intentions, but solely because of "heightened sensitivity to the vanities of everyday life" as the defendant put it. The defendants family were present there, only a bench behind us to the left. They were an odd bunch, adorned in rags and their eyes craving sleep, their expressions betrayed a sense of vengeance, When the judge ruled against the defendant, and this happened quite quickly, the family seemed to freeze solid, fusing into one mass, white fear on their faces. But I could see through that molded wall of humiliation. They were angry once they crept back in to the crevices of the floor, gnashing their insectile teeth. Why were they angry? They were definitely angry, there was detectable deformity on their faces. Some tension that bore resemblance to that of a sound produced by an oud. They had been served some injustice of sorts. But it is a pity, or perhaps it isn’t, that their rebellion was ossified, and all that was left were the acute, puncturing sounds of the oud. And that’s how I let my mind wander, and my pen choked itself of its ink, I stopped writing and took to stale reflections, I wonder if X still visits the shore.
