She knows the smile too.
I saw her. I know instantly that the world has categorized us under the same banner, hate. Under this banner the world and the whole of the universe would connive to make us abhor humanity and everything about it. We are the same people who think music should be art, sheets should be white and simplicity is brilliance. The complexity of the world annoys us. We go against the wave because we know waves end and begin from the shore. We know human nature is neither good nor evil for it is neutral. We become what we become and nothing more.
I approached her. I was at a quandary because I know we don’t like people talking to us. Silence is an expensive pursuit. It is something human race has confiscated a long time ago. Solitude is paradise. We isolate ourselves from the world because real things cause real pain, real suffering, and real emotion. I know both of us would have loved to be alone.
I asked her name. But it’s the last thing I wanted to know, her name. The first thing was the tone of here voice, its melody and intensity. I wanted also to confirm my thoughts. I wanted to know if you would ignore me because that would make me like her more. A lot more.
She looked at me. Her intelligent eyes told me she hated me for robbing her thoughts away from the psychedelic miasma she created for herself.
She told me to keep my breath to cool my porridge while she keeps hers to swell her song. I smiled. I smiled like a child who has seen the wonders of defying gravity. I smiled because I knew instantly that her life and mine are the same. Our lives are constantly rotating on the same axis on the same direction, hers always before mine to avoid collision. Or mine always before hers. I really do not know. I have yet to find out. The gravities of our lives are so equal they have in fact cancelled each other.
I told her it’s a crime to lift lines from Pride and Prejudice without properly quoting Austen.
She looked at me as if she hated me even more. Then she smiled. Then she laughed. She stopped laughing just enough to leave a voice resonation in my ears and in my heart. She looked at me again and said, “The proprietorship of the book is both in its author and in its reader. The line is mine as much as it is Jane’s.”