Gossip Girl

A boy once told me he loved the way my mind works. It was surreal. The words had bounced off his tongue abruptly, forcefully as if he had been fighting all his instincts to hold them back. It was a warm Friday night alive with the bustling and rustling of people rushing to catch the last tram home, or the first taxi to the club. I looked down at the activity from my balcony as a child does at an ant farm – with pure fascination. I was fascinated by something else entirely though, just how different the streets looked that night. How many times had I looked at strangers walking down that street and imagined which one would be my first witness? I wondered which one would call the police, take charge, perhaps even try a little DIY called first aid. I always stood on this very spot every night before bed, wondering, plotting until I finish gulping down my prescribed sedative. Then this boy that night, mid-conversation, several bluetooth scopes out of topic, had simply blurted those simple words. I remember staring at him for a while, searching for the lie, secretly hoping not to find it. I looked down at the street again, that’s when for the first time I saw what he saw. A dirty crowded street full of strangers in a hurry. A mother pushing a screaming baby on a stroller, hastily motioning for the tram driver to wait for her. The tram left seconds before she reached it anyway. A beggar sitting on a corner, playing an imaginary instrument, hoping it will amuse well-wishers. They passed by without a second glance anyway. Another stranger yelling derogatory things at the small lady in the car ahead of his as if the horn in his car wasn’t enough of an insignia. I scowl. For the first time I saw it as it was, a dirty, mean, ragged street. If anyone would have captured a photograph of that street at that exact moment, I swear they would smell the pungent smells from the picture alone. I was seeing this horrible scene in front of me but I was smiling like an idiot. It was the first time I was seeing it as a street, not a final destination. Do you know how terribly broken you have to be to find that scene fascinating?

I averted my eyes from the scene back to the boy whose words had unlocked the way to this train of thought. I wanted to freeze this moment and stay aboard this train for days on end.

I mumbled an awkward little, ‘ thanks’. He elaborated further, and the more he complimented my mind, the more pitiful I felt for him. That was the best line he could ever say to anyone, and he had wasted it on me. How could he ever know?

That I walk around with a little hearing aid that relays all the bad news from my brain. That inside this head is a little gossip girl who won’t shut up. She keeps narrating the worst side of my story, over and over again until I loathe myself. How could anyone possibly guess that the answer to why I am always quiet and alone is because she talks all day long and hates to be interrupted by the croaky sound of my voice. She doesn’t let me sleep. She keeps telling me to worry, she asks really hard questions whenever I try to catch some sleep. I don’t have good answers to any of them, hence automatically I am never enough. It’s an awful feeling.

I toss and turn because those are the only movements she allows me to do in my restless state. She keeps reminding me of the infinite ways to off myself, to rid myself of this misery. Disappear into thin air. She said my parents will soon die, my dreams though, even earlier. I don’t want to believe her most times, but I do. How can I not? What she says is me saying it. It is reality proving itself one step ahead every damn time. Mortality exists and she keeps reminding me that it’s the final parameter to my joy. The V-max to my contentment. She doesn’t let me forget. I play music or comedy before I sleep, so my dreams don’t include her conspiracy theories like reality does. I hate her. I resent her. I don’t like the fact that she tells the truth at the wrong time, yet punctually like a German train schedule. She’s on my mind, in my mind. Her mind is me. I am her. Her anxiety is mine.

That’s why I am sure that boy had no idea what he was saying. He did not know he was proclaiming adoration to two different minds. That’s why I didn’t believe him. How could he understand what I don’t understand myself? The whole notion of my anxiety is so tightly twisted, I don’t know if its worth exploring at all. It is akin to the Amazon, intriguing but if you dig too deep, your specimen might bite you dead…..and dead men tell no tales, no?

So we sat on that balcony, quietly – carefully.

Just enjoying mutual understanding. The kind that overshadows conventional communication. The definition of intuition itself. Intuition that understood that my gossip girl was already telling me dreadful things about myself and it wouldn’t help asking me to swallow any more bitter pills.

That silence was enough, and perhaps I’d decide to hum in between my gossip girl’s suggestions. Anything to drown her anxiety filled words. And I did. That night on that dingy balcony, I looked into his eyes. If I am to be totally candid, I wasn’t trying to be romantic. I just needed something to cling onto, because this thread of hope was wearing thin. My gossip girl was more than convincing that night. Way more. Oh she was chanting, That’s how confident she was that she was right. Her anxiety almost swallowed me whole. So, I looked into his eyes. Searching.                                                    

His charming, ignorant eyes just like those words he said. I clung to them tightly, desperately like a cross to the face of the Antichrist. The last trick up my sleeve.

I didn’t dare look down that balcony. They say no one is afraid of heights, but they are just afraid of falling. I used to believe it too love, but that night only confirmed what I always knew; I wasn’t afraid of heights, love, or compliments.

Not even petrified of falling, I was just immensely afraid of how much I wanted to jump.