When Words Rest

"It was all lies. Lies hidden under piles of blankets and stacks of old books. Lies that your sweet, curly eyelashes would never tell. Except for they did. The stories they whispered in stuttered blinks, seemed to wring them out. Or at least, I think that is why water fell from your eyes. Even so, when I see your eyelashes now, all I see is spider legs."

I close the book with a keen sense of anxiety, no doubt an emotion that flooded through the author as they wrote. When I picked the thread-bear copy up, I was only expecting an easy read. I have a headache and do not feel like working today. But now I can't stop picturing the vivid image of a person with spider legs for eyelashes. An image I don't think anyone would be fond of, but causes a physical burning in my ears on account of my self-diagnosed arachnophobia. I feel rattled as I think of the image the writer was trying to create with those words. "Spider legs for eyelashes"... It strikes me in the same haunting way another story did many years ago. That story, like this one, came to me exactly how every other story does. By simply appearing on the shiny wood shelves of my library. I remember it well. It came in the night and called to me until the morning. And when I finally opened the maroon leather, its words leaked the tales of a “Man with a crooked smile”. That story took me hours to read, and the images I saw, the man that I met, the way I felt, they have all lingered in my mind ever since. After that, there is one thing I have learned for certain: Words do not stay with us, their intentions do. 

Of course, spider leg eyelashes and crooked smiles have their own aesthetic appeal in the way of horror. But the intention.. It is the intention of those words that haunts me. It is the same idea after all, something that under all pretenses should be beautiful. Eyelashes, smiles. But then suddenly, with a simple twist of words and a change of intention, beautiful things are not so beautiful after all. You see, apart from reading words. I can feel them too. I think that is why stories come to me in the end. After they have pounded in your ears, and dripped wildly with your tears. Once they’ve flowed out of you and drained into space. After they have wrestled their way up your throat and punched past your teeth, they come to me. Bloody, bruised, and restless. Eager to be read. They fall onto the pages of the books adorning my libraries shelves and they whisper to me. And sometimes, they scream. Like the story of the man with a crooked smile and the one that pounds in my hands now. Either way, screaming or not, I always find them, and they always come apart in my hands.

I reread the passage in front of me twice, convinced my interpretation must be wrong. This story was supposed to be about love. I felt that when I picked it up. But the creamy texture between black covers seems to be melting, withering away. The way you would expect something of a dwindling nature to be. I consider the pages the author must have written this on and the damage to the pages in front of me. And if experience tells me anything, wilting of this nature is caused by only one thing. Human tears. I turn the soft, fragile form over in my hands and feel the emotion seeping out of it. Which confuses me because so far, all I have read about is spiders and eyeballs and the unsatisfactory mixing of the two. But it is my job to find more. To read deeper, if you will. And thankfully, I have no shortage of time to do so. But now that I can feel the type of story I am getting myself into, I decide to prepare more thoroughly.

I turn and walk toward one of my favorite nooks in my library. It is usually where I go when I know that I will be held up for a while trying to decipher an author's words and emotions. This is the same place I sat when I met the “Man with a crooked smile.” I duck under the shelf hanging graciously from the vaulted ceilings, or at least that is what I assume it is hanging from. I've never seen the top of my library, as odd as that sounds. You see, the ceiling is so high up that I wouldn't even know if it ever ended. Of course, there are grand staircases in my library, but I have never made it past the first level. The most pressing stories wait for me on the shelves surrounding my quaint little nook. Almost like they know that the closer they are to that area, the more quickly they will be read. So there really is no need to venture further than a few feet. Especially when one reading takes me to an entirely new place all together. Every turn of a page greets me with new emotions, new scenes, and a new life to experience. After all, I travel further distances from the comfort of my nook, than I could ever travel in my seemingly endless library. I flip a switch and the nook lights up with a million little dangling lights. They twinkle effortlessly around me as I strike a match to light my candles. This type of serenity is crucial when I am doing a reading as in depth and emotional as this is bound to be. I sit down on my plush chair. Warm light and air swims in the little area, gushing in and out with my breath. It reminds me of the ocean, how waves gently press upon the shore. In and out. My breathing becomes the catalyst of the waves of warmth around me. For a brief moment I see it, a scene that the words of others have developed in my mind. As it fades, I open my eyes to find the book that has been calling me, sitting gracefully in my hands. The book is not at peace there, as much as my headache wishes it to be. It needs to be read. The worn black leather screams to be opened. Its unrest rips the fragmented remains of my oceanic dream away, it is time to read. That much is obvious. I pull the cover open and catch a whiff of heat soaked pages. I breathe in the familiar smell and cling to its comforting nature as my eyes jump to the black stains written on the first page.

 "I love the clear blue of the sky. Would you like to know why? Because of you my dear. Your eyes are the sky and your voice is the wind. No. Your soul is the wind. And it is also your mouthpiece and it chases me off the edge of a cliff, swirling around me as I fall down. It cradles me while it kills me. And that is why I love the sky. It is blue, but is it really?"

 Of course it is. Frustration makes my top lip sweat. I lick the salty fluid away and try to look past my annoyance. I can feel that the author is female. And this woman, whoever she is, is clearly confused. I relax and consider who she might be. I always get glimpses of those whose writing I read. I don’t know why, but they are typically the characters of their own work. Perhaps it is so that they can rest along with their words? Either way, when I feel a story, it is usually because I can feel the person who wrote it. And that is usually because they are experiencing relentlessly strong emotions at the time of their writing.

Typically in my line of work, I don't find people on their good days. In fact, I almost always meet them in the midst of their worst. And I can feel that this remains true for the authors whose words are before me now. I breathe through my nose and gently close my eyes. She comes in a litany of blurred images. I find her among warm water and hot steam. I feel the warmth that rested on her skin as she wrote. The way the steam felt as it entered her lungs. And I can smell lavender. It is not fresh lavender, like what I have seen as a part of other stories in beautiful fields. No this is different. Soap? No. Oil? No. I see a flash of a blurred flame and feel a strong sense of curiosity flood over me. All at once it clicks. My writer is in the bathtub and the subtle scent of lavender in the air is brought to us courtesy of a lavender candle. She must have an intense emotion connected to the flickering of a candle flame. Because I never see details, I only feel them. And though I can’t see the flame perfectly, I know almost instinctively what it is. I focus on that emotion for as long as she will allow. In this place, there are emotions much stronger, I can feel them vibrating in the back of my mind. But there is a connection to that fire somewhere deep inside her. I can feel it. Curiosity maybe? Perhaps they just memorize her? I feel peace wash over us for a moment and know that it is what’s connecting her to that candle.

I think of her face, or at least how I imagine it to be. Unfortunately, because I can only feel details when I read, many of my friends are faceless forms to me. I know in my heart that she would have the face of a wanderer, sweaty from a mixture of her constant movement and steam from her bath. I can feel the sweat on my own forehead, mirroring that on hers, and curling the baby hairs along the edges of my face. I can't help but feel that the beads of sweat come from her desperate search to find the answers to questions that need not be asked. I can sense that in her. Whoever she is, she is curious. Is the sky blue? I want to rip that line out. The cliche of it alone is enough to make me vomit. But time dwindles slowly much like the pages of this ranting book and both beg me to think deeper. To read past the expected and annoyance is not going to help that. I push myself to the side of my mind to make room for her to take over. And so I Imagine the character again, her and her wandering soul. I picture her disheveled hair, for some reason it has to be curly. But not the pretty type of curls you see models wearing. No. Her curls are the unruly kind, much like the edges of her soul. Her hair lashes out in whichever direction it chooses, and the frizz... the frizz is unbearable. I smile as she comes to life in my minds eye, completely taking me over. She has no name, but that doesn't bother me. In fact, she is strong enough to stand imperiously without one. A name would just weaken her, slow her down. And she does not need to be slowed down. Is the sky blue? Of course. At least what we can see of it is. Her thought forms in my mind. She questions, but behind it? I find the answer as easily as she did. Behind the blue,  a black. A black, so bold, so hollow, human minds can't even comprehend it in its entirety. I consider this point over in my head. Much like the beauty of a smile turned ugly, or the concept of spider-leg eyelashes, I think my curly haired friend wanted her readers to know that things are rarely what they seem to be. I continue reading, hoping that context will help me understand her story more. 

"I remember screaming at you, it made my throat raw. And then I'd kiss you, and you made my lips raw. Was that us? Raw throats and raw lips? Or just me? Was I your scratching post? The thing you'd sink your claws into and then leave to bleed alone?" 

My heart breaks with hers. I can feel the claws sinking into my back. It hurts. But deep inside I would do anything for it. For that pain. This is love. And like her, I would do anything for that love. I've felt this before. I’ve felt it through the detailed writing of others. It is wild. It is powerful. It is vividly human. And like so many before her, she dove into those soul devouring waters, and now she takes me with her. Do we drown? Only her words will tell me. I can feel her anguish. I can tell that she is reaching out in every direction to save herself. I feel my own hands flailing desperately. But she hasn't sunk yet. Her head is still above the water, she can still breathe. And so can I. The warm water turns cold as we kick around trying to stay afloat. Panic. Absolute panic. Hate. Heavy disgusting hate, pulling me down into the deep black waters of the unknown. Her words speak her emotions, the same emotions that permeate the awful scene. I feel my throat is raw, my lips too. And I am certain that we will be lost the thick black gushing below us.

"I hated you. Because I loved you. Still. I loved you still. And I knew I shouldn't. I spent countless nights endlessly thinking of you. But after this. After all of this. All the ache, all the pain, the absolute hate and cold lonely bitterness. After the love and the loss and all of the tears, there is one thing I know for sure. I will never let another person make me feel the way you made me feel. Small. So so small. Overrated, undervalued, irritating, an utter waste of time. I swear. Never again. And with this promise comes new light."

 I feel the calm settle in my chest. My muscles stop resisting at her realization. We relax together and float to the top of the water. I hear the calm sounds of water plugging my ears as I float on my back fully supported on the surface. When in a sudden change of events, the thing that almost killed me becomes the thing that saved me. The thing that gives me life. I'm stunned by her ability to see it that way. It did almost kill her. I felt the air leave my lungs like it did hers. I felt the freezing cold choking me. But somehow, as I lay with her on top of it all, I feel love humming in my chest and pounding in my heart. It starts small but quickly grows. I feel flashes of others, I see their hands. They held her. They loved her and she loved those hands right back. Hands that belonged to the ones that worked hard for her. Hands that tell a magnificent story of trial and error, overcoming struggle, and above all always being open to hold. To love. Silence tickles my ears as I feel her become lighter. The cold water leaves us all together and I feel hot light shining on my face. It is the sun. I breathe in the warm air around her. It smells like summer, she makes that connection through the smell of freshly cut grass. I can hear the sounds of a lawn mower in the distance. This must've been an important day in her story. I'm calm. I'm happy. And with a flood of gratitude I finally realize it.

 "Let it rip you apart. Let it completely de root you. For now. Let it consume your days and crush your chest at night. And one day, you will feel the sun burn your skin and realize that it did not take everything from you. You will realize that you survived and that you were brave. And that's the thing about bravery... it just bleeds out of us when we are least expecting it. So you can worry. You can fret. Hell, you can even let all of that hold you back. Or you can literally take the leap and watch as your bravery catches you. Watch how it jumps out and holds on to the moments, most of the time carrying you through to spectacular places." 

My heart feels silly. Excited. Proud. I feel my cheek muscles stretch into a smile. And a laugh bubble up deep in my insides. It overflows out of me, I laugh loudly, hysterically. In a flash I feel the wind blow through my hair, I feel the thrill of a rollercoaster, and hear the sound of a babies cry. I feel my muscles burn as I climb mountains and see glorious people and places. I feel love. And feel the warmth of anothers’ skin against my back. I feel mud under my fingernails and taste food as it slides down my throat. I feel time pass for my friend, and I watch it pass with her. Smiling as widely as she ever did. And then I feel ready. Prepared for what's next. Whatever that is. And I know that this story is winding to an end. I feel her remembering and breathing. I do it with her. I am thankful. So, so thankful. 

I never know where my friends go after I put their words to rest. But I believe that it is on to better things. Who knows, maybe I read their words again, in some other story at some other time. But I can always tell when a story has been told. When it is time to close the book and move on. And I like to believe that my resolution comes from their own. And my new friend is ready to move on, her words are ready to rest. She is ready to move past this story. It's time. I turn to the final page and read the single line there.

 "In the end, it took losing you to find myself."

Her gratitude works as a period to the final line of this story. It haunts her heart and fills her bones. I feel it tingle under my skin as well. I open my eyes and find myself again in my nook, sitting in my chair. The candles have all but burned out. And the light has dimmed substantially. I let out a deep breath and feel like I have just woken from a very vivid dream. I stand with the book in my hands and walk toward the center of my library. There in the middle of million stories is a large metal table, adorned with the ashes of words put to rest. I place the book on the center of it and strike the match. The words are ready because she is. Neither resist moving on. Instead, they become engulfed in beautiful flames, that dance around the air and because of her, strike me with a hopeful sense of peace. I watch as she fades away with her words. Until eventually, there is nothing but ashes left. I smile in my final goodbye. And glimpse her as with a final flick of wild curls, she turns to run in the direction of the unknown, no longer afraid of what could be lurking in it’s depths.

I am the one who hears your stories. I am the one who feels your pain. Your words are my words, and this is what happens when words rest. I am the word keeper.