Brown and Green

Through a brown framed window, sunlight filters. Through sunlight�s beams, dust motes dance. I first see the slow, waltzing glitter while I struggle to gather thoughts in my mind of words and people and places to write.

Inside their unaccompanied ball, I am irretrievably drawn. They catch light intensely, slowly wafting by and by until they dim, surfaces hidden temporarily from the afternoon glare.

It appears to me like a moving galaxy. Each dust mote a bright star. I wonder if a universe could be as small as this. So fragile, so tender, so uncertain, so moving, and affecting and capturing and�

� And I recall that all I am seeing is just dust.

My imagination subsides and I return once more to a gloomy gaze. There is a strong wall within that will not be brought down in a quest for a plot, for words, for people, places, objects and things that regardless, will not be found.

*

A gypsy girl strums her instrument, her living, her last remaining object of worth. In her eyes, she sees the world differently. Her voice creates melody, her mind provides the constant check on beat and time, duration and pitch.

Her eyes look up and watch the world, her voice recollects folklore tunes. The dynamics are thin. Just her voice, her guitar, her fingers strumming against old strings � those same fingers calloused and hardened by years of playing to a moving crowd. One that changes and walks away to their own homes. Walks away to families, lovers, friends and familiar places.

A boy stops before her, and she does not notice. How peculiar of the girl who notices everybody. It takes her a moment and a clink of two coins slipped into a case just beyond her feet before she looks up.

What does she find? Eyes similar to her own � seeing the world differently, but masked behind facades and smarter clothes; a tie, a blazer, a private school bag slung over a shoulder; a deeper voice, hands marked with ink stains.

Fingers forget their role. The song pauses. Her voice fades, and she blushes. He however merges back into the crowd. Their struggles are different. His lie in grades and marks and sustaining convincing arguments. Hers are with money to fund her life, consisting of just merely surviving.

But they both know that tomorrow, he�ll drop inside her guitar case his twelve dollars and twenty cents and she�ll try to work up the courage to say thank you to the boy with green eyes.

*

I ask you to close your eyes for a moment, and imagine this: A young girl stands on the edge of a cliff. She is small for her age, though she is sixteen. She wears a pale face and a skin that never tans. She has inherited her mother�s dainty, aloof smile. You would conclude, if you talked to her, that she was horribly arrogant and proud. Contrarily, she is rather shy and lacks the ability to feel comfortable in a room where hardly met with strangers congregate. She is intelligent and soft spoken, honest and occasionally mischievous. She is hardly accomplished in the language of French, but her mind thrives on numbers and problems of sort. She likes dancing, hates singing and piano lessons. But there is something most extraordinary about this girl you see. She was born with, and has always had one brown eye and one green. And that thought alone makes you forget everything else about her.

*

Life amazes me. It scares me sometimes. It frustrates me and confuses me. Things make me cry, others make me laugh. People get on my nerves and bring me down. Others soothe and heal me and bring me up.

Who said life was too short? Is it not the longest thing that you have ever done? Could you think of anything else that I have done for sixteen years straight?

But have I lived all those years, or did I just exist? To tell you the truth, I lived for only two years of high school. I existed for the rest. I couldn�t tell you why I did what I did� Articulate was a word you would have not used to describe me. Then.

Now. Life has changed. But it feels normal. And exhilarating. I appreciate what I see. Brown and green. I anticipate life. It�s melodrama, boring hours, stressful weeks and happy, carefree summers.

I�m waiting for tomorrow while I�m finishing tonight.

And it will be just as beautiful as today.