by Nandita Saikia
Published on: Feb 4, 2006
Type: Poetry

The Girl in Hyacinth Blue. There were those who called her 'Morning Shine.' She sits by a window with sunlight gently sweeping over her. Her serenity as the world passes by her seems overwhelming. Can anyone ever do that in real life?

Blood seeping on to the floor; thicker than water, it does not spread out, only merges again to form grotesque but interesting patterns as it spills over. Distorted reflections make their appearance in water like that; you hope to be able to decipher a meaning which, in your heart, you know doesn't even exist in the strange aberrations strewn on the dark black granite around you, yet you stare at them for what seems like an aeon and thank God for them. You do not want to see reality: it is too bleak. Hallucinations and lies are your respite from pain. Anything seems easier than the truth, and almost everything is.

The patterns look like modern art if you stretch your imagination far enough except for the fact that you're certain that they've been randomly created by a lunatic. You can almost hear his raucous laughs echoing in the background.

They don't stop and you begin to realize that it isn't your imagination playing tricks at all. You have to go back and face them: after all, they personify what your life has become. 'The Girl in Hyacinth Blue' never was anything more than a novel. There still is blood mixed with water on the bathroom floor as you begin to make your way towards the door.

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