Nonsensical Truth

She took her glasses off with a sigh and squinted at the now blurry, but still obnoxiously bright, computer screen. The story that she had spent the past several months laboring over was reduced to a series of wavy horizontal lines. Setting her glasses down on her desk, she pulled her legs up to her chest and rested her chin on her knees. Her tired gaze wandered to the rest of the desk, cluttered with all manner of things. Some of the things were practical, some nonsensical. Her eyes found the left side of her desk and saw a notebook under a bucket hat and a ceramic unicorn propping up a pen. The sight made her smile. Pale early evening light was streaming through the open window on her right and illuminated her belongings without knowing which objects were considered necessary. The shadows fell the same, creating shapes of a warped world.

Looking out the window, the silhouettes of the trees against the sky were soft. Everything was soft without her glasses. The blur of clouds, the touch of sunlight. The world outside her window looked kinder this way, but she knew it wasn’t reality, crisp and sharp. As soon as she put on her glasses she would see the details, unpleasant and ugly. The dead branches, the abandoned bird nest. She didn’t know what she preferred. A kind lie or a harsh truth.

Was her story done? Should she tell herself a kind lie or a harsh truth? Did she write a beautiful series of moments? Or did she write useless nonsense? She didn’t know if she could accept the latter, so she kept her glasses off.

She freely gave a piece of herself every time she strung together words on paper. That’s why she couldn’t bear for the story she wrote to be useless or nonsensical. It didn’t have to be practical, but she wanted it to be necessary. She wanted to be necessary. She needed to be.

Glasses still off, she slowly tilted her head back and extended her legs from their folded position. Pointed toes barely skimming the cold hardwood, she spun in her chair. She watched the ceiling fan turn. She knew it was actually still, but it made her laugh quietly to herself because it truly looked like the fan was spinning instead of her. Perspective was a funny thing. 

Every person who read her story would see it differently. Each person sitting in a different chair, twirling at a different speed, seeing a different fan. The thought was equal parts exhilarating and terrifying. Every person would see her story through a unique and personal lens. This gave the story a depth and an adaptability that she alone would never be able to cultivate. But it also meant that she was no longer in control of the story, of her narrative. As soon as she gave that story to another set of eyes, it would no longer be hers. She could control it no longer.

Breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth, she stopped her chair and stood up. Her muscles ached from being hunched over her computer for so many hours. She never noticed how tense she got while she was writing, but it became all too clear when she stopped. When she wrote, everything else faded away. She was in her story, in her world. Nothing else existed or mattered.

But she needed to remind herself of the world she actually existed in. Being swept away in a world of her own design was intoxicating, but it should only be done in small doses. One chapter at a time. 

She felt the cold floor under her bare feet and flexed her hand in the dying evening light, watching how the shadows danced on her skin. She wished she could dance as well as those shadows. Arms outstretched, she spun, trying to mimic the shadows she admired. Chuckling softly at the notion of dancing with shadows, she stopped. Taking a few steps to the window, she gripped the rough window sill, trying to ground herself in this reality. As much as she didn’t want to remind herself of the reality she existed in, she needed to. 

The hardest part of writing was reminding herself that no matter how much she wanted what she created to be real, it could never be. Her story was over. All chapters written.

She was tired of this world, sharp or soft. Practical or nonsensical. Necessary or unimportant. Feeling stuck and a little lost, she ran her fingers through her hair. She didn’t like the rules of this world.

Walking back to her desk, she gracelessly fell into her chair. Sighing, she looked at her glowing computer, the screen still filled with wavy lines of text. Her text. Her story. She dreaded relinquishing control of the world she created. But she knew she needed to. She wanted to, in all actuality. She wanted to share her creation with the world. She wanted to show herself. She was done hiding in worlds of her own design. She wanted to create beauty in this world, the one she existed in.

Her hands picked up her glasses, slowly and deliberately perching them on her nose. She read her story one more time. Allowed herself to escape into her story once more. While she read, she accepted the harsh truth. Along with a kind lie. Because who is to say what is a truth, and what is a lie? Her story will be nonsensical to some. It will be necessary to others. Some will be able to see the soft along with the sharp in her story. All stories and realities are cluttered with the practical and nonsensical. The thought made her smile. 

Tilting her head to the window once more, hands clasped under her chin, she drank in the sky. Enough time had passed that dusk had fully transformed into a glittering night. Each pinprick of light was sharp, her glasses allowing her to see the stars clearly. 

 Staring up at the abyss of night sky, she wished she could be sucked up in that inky mystery. If only to experience something at least half as interesting as the story she just wrote.

After a heartbeat, she took back the wish. She wanted to be here. In this reality, in this chair, at this desk. Looking at hats, pens, fans, and shadows. Feeling cold hardwood and rough window sills. 

But writing about so much more.