She: A Being

*Dedicated to the being that has inspired me all my life: In hopes to inspire you.*

 

She felt old. Like an aged wine. Smooth on your throat with her sharpened experiences. She had felt a lot, seen a lot. Heard a lot.

She felt old. She needed silence. The whirr of the fan, the pattering of the rain on the roof. She wanted to feel the silence envelop her body like the mist settling on her city.

There she sat. Surrounded, yet alone. A figure in the buzz. The city buzz. The kind that never silenced itself, even at night. Her legs crossed, the tummy tucked away behind her round oiled knees hiding somewhere behind her linen pants. Her hands gently resting on her thighs.

She was pondering her existence in this throng of madness. The exact moment when she had decided to let herself be amidst the buzz. The moment she had sat down and the relief she had felt as her bottom thumped on the chair. She couldn’t have felt like that ever before. It was new, this relief. And so it was every time she had crouched enough to place her rounded, old gluteus maximus on some sort of seating.

Her mind returned to her existence. This body she had taken with her through the years. Aged within it, so elegantly, gracefully. A gazelle sprung into action. Aged with her memories. They were there, lurking behind the plastic wall in her mind. The kind that you could almost see through, to a blurry outline of something you couldn’t quite remember.

She remembered the moment she had chosen to exist in the very place she was in now. It was existence, was it not? It was the very essence of being. Her molecules had come into contact with the chair. With each other.

Was she stuck? Could she move? She twitched her fingers to check. Quickly, timidly, as though she could get caught for her sudden movement. A sudden decision. She marveled at the rapid response her fingers had given. Almost caught her off guard.

A flash. That was all it took.

She was on her feet. A flurry of movement. Her being moving. Her existence moving. Her feet moving. She walked out into the air. A flash decision. A rash decision? No. Never.

In her 28 years of existence on this mass of a planet called Earth, a rash decision was not part of her vocabulary. It was a pull. An external force that inspired movement within her. And now she was.

Her present in our past. She was being, just as she knew how to be. And it would only take time until she would age. That graceful gazelle-like movement into a natural.

She felt old. Like an aged wine. Smooth on your throat with her sharpened experiences. A swirl and a sip. She was the best wine she could have been. She would see it too. Eventually.

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