A Lonely Soul (Fiction)

“He was going to make a lot of money.” 
                                 . . . 
I glanced at the girl sipping her coffee by the window. The girl was beautiful in the most natural sense. She was wearing a little blush on her modest cheekbones without a touch of any other makeup. A strand of her sandy blonde hair grazed her barely there eyelashes, she tucked it behind her ear to reveal bright blue eyes. She was lovely and curious, each movement and gesture pure in its innate grace. 

She looked at me and I felt my shy face become flush. I smiled and left her gaze looking down at my life’s necessities on the table in front of me: cigarettes, a pink lighter and a wallet with too many nooks and crannies for my minimalist nature. In the backpocket with a zipper, my keys hid among the pennies I was never sure what to do with. They fell out every once in a while and I liked to pretend they were leaving me for a better life. All the little Lincolns rolling away to start fresh and travel the world. 

For a long time I attempted to train my mind to think constructively. To refrain from needless self-analysis and spend more time pondering the details of life occurring around me. I failed most times, reverting from observing said details apart from my life and instead interpreting their fit in the grand scheme of my being. 

And so it goes, I couldn’t resist comparing myself to the beautiful stranger at the window table. She was everything I imagined to be perfect and everything I wanted to be as a woman. My blonde hair was a dark sunny shade, repeatedly treated with platinum strands. My face was always a sleepy work of art created in front of the mirror in my bedroom. The bronzer was too dark. The eyes lined to resemble Cleopatra and appease my mother’s constant reminders that heavy eye makeup was my best solution to an otherwise washed out face. My lips were stained with a light trace of raspberry lipstick sans lip liner. Following my mother’s advice that lip liner and other shades of lipstick  gave my mouth a strange shape.  

But the physical attributes weren’t the reason I felt a desire to be the blue eyed beauty. I craved the grace and self-assurance illuminating the air around her. She seemed at ease, approaching all life’s matters with a certainty one can only have when one is clear with respect to their desires and their nature. She seemed to me the epitome of the Ancient Greek aphorism “Know Thyself.” 

I was desperately searching for the same luxury. Simultaneously plagued by a nagging sense of instability and stagnation, I remained in search of the indefinite. . . 

  

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