the center

Variety is indeed the spice of life, and the seemingly endless variations that are capable of being produced can be very interesting food to digest. To speculate what course the raging waters of our lives could have taken if only a pebble was tossed in to divert its flow is an act that I have indulged in occasionally, but after hearing such wrenching news this morning I couldn’t help but foolishly entertain such a notion.
Libby was a bright fierce woman of intellect, and it saddens me to admit that our lives only intersected briefly, at best she was a casual acquaintance, but when we shared more then just a passing glance the conversations were memorable and hearing how inglorious her end was met makes her unfulfilled promise all the more perverse in its tragedy.
It was not usual to see her proudly stride from location to location smile engraved upon her delicate features. She walked as if possessed by a boundless courage and determination, so ubiquitous was her presence that one took for granted the rare occasions when she had seemingly faded into shadow. Her being was certainly taken for granted by my person, and while at the salon amongst the capacious revelry I dared to ask if any of my companions had seen Libby recently, I noted that it had been quite some time since last my eyes had bore witness to her traipsing about. When my question was meet with mouths agape I knew that something awful had happened, and my friend, when asked if I heard of her passing nearly a fortnight ago I was devastated. How, I asked, could a woman of such everlasting tenacity be so cruelly seized from this mortal coil when so much of her potential had yet to bloom. Such devastating news, encourages the consumption of innumerable spirited beverages; knowing that such a tender soul was bucked from her horse, her body unexpectedly flung into the autumn air, with the weight of body crashing down upon her svelte neck; such an awful thought certainly instigated the retention of many sprits that night. I sat outside, with the weight of my thought pressed upon me and looked up into the vast black emptiness that stretched above and gave serious thought to the deviations in life that should occur.
I have no substantive claim to call myself a mourner, as I alluded to earlier; between us though, long ago was the unfulfilled promise of what could have been. At excessive length, I have written about the horrible affliction caused by the horrid females who circle through my life, but I am as much a villain in my action as those shrieking harpies are, if not more so. I want to believe that I am the author of my reality, and by my hands creation I tend to think that I am the intrepid protagonist, but as much as I have want for this idea to be true, I know that it can’t always be the case; and while time marches on I can’t help but contemplate the thought that I am the antagonist. Only if I had been more considerate in my bustle, dear friend, what events might have flowered, I suppose we will never know. It was on a blistering august day when I saw her traipsing about without a care in this world; she took a look at me stumbling thorough the motions of the morning ritual that demanded I take tea with her this very moment. Intrigued by such boldness, I followed her with out any resistance and we arrived at a café around the block where we spent many pleasant hours talking. She admitted that many times she had snatched tantalizing glances of my artwork when my drapes were left open; at the end we both agreed that such pleasant conversation is a rare occurrence and should be done again as soon at time permits. Unfortunately, it never happened again, she stopped me in the street the next week, her cool hand briefly pressed against mine and she spoke in a slow timid voice saying what a lovely time had been had; I parroted back some inane nonsense about the day’s weather and hastily went about my business.
I can’t understand what impulses guided my actions, but from that day forward I made certain that my existence was invisible to her perceptions, and I was largely successful in my plot. Christmas, was the last time I would speak to her; I remember by chance on a particular frigid night seeing her leaving the same theater I was attending. Her cheeks were a hard apple colour and tendrils of thick white breath escaped into the winter night when she asked me if I was well. I made many excuses, blaming a black dog that had been visiting me, but I wanted to escape back into the shadows of the night where my shame was less transparent.
The world is brutal and ugly, punctuated sometimes by intensely strange beauty. The world has lost such a beautiful person, I only wish that that sometimes I wasn’t such a rake.
Yours,
D