Quirky
By Farirai Manonose
Selene lived unseen, all on her lonesome, in a small brick house on the side of a hill. It was a cold solitary place, and it was glorious. The sun was never quite bright, but a soft light filtered by grey clouds and snowstorms tickled her eyelids open every morning. Here in the mountains with her records and her books, Selene couldn’t have been more alone or more at home. She couldn’t have had more freedom.
Here she had no need to protect herself, and so her heart was on her sleeve for all the nature around her to see. She smiled at the plants that hung from her ceiling.
‘Hello, my lovelies,’ she seemed to say with her golden-green hazel eyes. She did not need to speak out loud because she knew that her plants could hear her. She only had to think. She only had to be. This was the liberty that came with her secluded home. She was free from the confines of speech, proving herself and social niceties. She was free to skip and jump and shout if she pleased. In this dark and bright place, in this cold and warm place, she was free to truly be herself. Free to be Selene.
She wondered what the soundtrack to her life might sound like. Perhaps it would rise and fall, intrigue and amuse. Perhaps it would simply sound like Selene, comfortable, happy, different, and quirky. She could almost feel it now, the music flowing out of her fingertips, caressing her hair and warming her heart. She could almost see them, the notes floating with the silver dust lit by the dimmed gray sunlight that streamed through the windows. She could almost hear the sound of the piano, guiding her every movement, echoing in her heart and mind.
She looked at a flower that she had picked in the spring. She had placed it between the pages of a book and left it in the dark for weeks on end. It was dry now and its beauty had been preserved, no, not preserved; it had become eternal. She imagined that she had placed herself too between the pages of a book. Or perhaps between the lines of a stave, in the eternal quiet of a semibreve. Her happiness, her joy, all her little idiosyncrasies, and eccentricities; immortalized in a melody. She looked at the flower, and it seemed to her that the flower looked back.
Once upon a time, that plant had been a seed, buried beneath the dirt, fighting to emerge. She looked at herself in the mirror, short hair, bangs, and a gardening apron.
“Oh how long I watered you dear flower so that your joy would be eternal,” she whispered to her reflection. Her growth had been intentional and instinctual, contradictory and cohesive.
She was particular when she gardened, taking nothing for granted.
Never over-water and never under-water. At this age, the plant should have grown just so.
It seemed as though centuries had passed since she had lived in that stuffy old box-like apartment, joining the herds of businessmen and women every morning as they trudged off to their 9-5 jobs. Wasting her life hidden away in a cheerless little cubicle. She had locked the true Selene; the artist, the writer, and the gardener in that cubicle. Selene had shouted and screamed and begged to be released, but for years and years, she had been stifled by bills, a pencil skirt, and box heels. It was an act of immense courage, leaving it all behind.
“Surely there must be more to life,” she had said to herself one morning. “A place where I needn’t suffer under the weight of monotony and uninspired labor. A place where I can work to live and not live to work. A place where the true Selene can exist”.
Selene did not know if the universe was sentient, if it cared, or was indifferent to her existence but she couldn’t help but feel as though she has been created to create. So it was with a wildness and intentionality that she created as she wanted and needed to. When her creations came together, contradictory and cohesive, she couldn’t help but dance and sing and shout in her solitary home. No one heard her except for the mountains and the snow. The bare trees with the wind’s help leaned in closer to listen to the music of her joy, and upon taking it in they swayed back and forth. Selene looked at them in wonder; she could swear they were dancing along to her melody.
Perhaps everyone has a soundtrack to their life, but some never get to pay attention, to be truly silent, and listen with their souls. Here in the mountains where Selene was unseen, she imagined the tune that played to her life. It rose and fell and it intrigued and amused her. Who knew that the arrangement of notes on a paper could so completely and intricately map the essence of one’s soul? For this music that echoed in the chambers of her heart was undeniably Selene. It was comfortable and happy, different and quirky.
End
