Annie, Are You Happy?

I

The door creaked open, and she was lit up by the single beam of light coming in through the doorway of the otherwise pitchblack room. She shielded her eyes with her hands, and one could see she was holding a crayon. It was sky blue, and half-used. She was knelt over sheets of paper and other crayons.  The sheet she’d been working on had a two eyes on it, amidst mountains,  a river, and a house.  She was a little girl with two butterfly clips in her hair, pink shorts, and freckles.

The man in the doorway called out, “Annie! Are you happy?”

“I’m happy father.”

“Okay.”

He shut the door throwing the room into thick darkness.

II

Annie was older now; a girl of about 11, her hair had grown out and was naturally brown. She heard his footsteps much before she heard the door creak open again. She shielded her eyes again, until his silhouette appeared in the doorway and cast some shadow. Her hand held a pen this time. On the sheets in front of her were words, lengthy words, and absurd figures like eyes made of radios and trees of rocks. The foremost sheet had a mess of images on it. It was mostly red, with tornadoes on the edges and a giant red sun in the middle. He look at her face, and then down at the papers. She wore glasses on a freckly face, with her hair pulled back into a ponytail.

He called out, “Annie! Are you happy?”

She didn’t respond.

“Annie! Are you happy? Answer quickly!”

“Yes father.”

“Okay.”

With one swing of the door, she was plunged back into black.

III

Heavy knocking reverberated through the darkness and trembled in thin air in front of her. Until the doors burst open casting a rectangle of yellow light on her once again. Annie was a young woman now. She wore a t-shirt and jeans, she had no glasses or freckles and she was beautiful. Her father was in the doorway again, but he breathing was heavy and exaggerated. He was clutching at his chest. Annie’s hand held a brush, a pen, and an eraser. On the sheets before her were pictures of landscapes; perfectly drawn birds, ships and clouds. The  tip of her of brush was tinged blue as she was about to shade the sky.  The silhouette in the doorway leaned against the frame of the door and looks as if he might drop to the floor.

In a breathy, raspy voice he yelled out, “Annie! Are you happy?”

“I am not too sure, but  I’m starting to believe so.”

“Okay.”

With that, the man collapsed in the doorway. Annie leaned back to her canvas and flooded the landscape with the blue on her brush. She drowned the birds, the trees, the lands. Everything.

IV

When the light fell on her face, it led the eye to her prostrate body. Thin, lean and raw.  She no longer tied her that had turned darker and fell all about her face. She wore a white gown and in her hand was a piece of charcoal. The sheets before her were almost invisible. They had been blackened out completely. The hands were black too, covered in powdered charcoal. She did not shield her eyes from the light and went right through her translucent, unblinking eyes. There was a multitude of figures in the doorway all looking into the room. She couldn’t see their faces, only the silhouette of a crowd.

They called out softly, “Annie! Are you happy?”
She raised her head and blinked, “I can try.”

V

She wore a green business blouse and skirt. Her hair was tied into a neat bun with one  loose hair falling across her forehead. When the light fell on her, one could she sat straight and looked directly at the doorway, the source of light.  In her hand was a ball pen, and on the sheets before here were long essays, documents, and letters. The sheet on top of the pile had notary stamps on them. Her face was hard, unmoving and expressionless. There were figures in the doorway again, only they were fewer in number this time. Only about two or three.

They leaned forward slightly, and called out, “Annie! Are you happy?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

VI

The door was slammed open this time, and Annie was sleeping in the light. Her breathing was a steady monotonous rhythm, and she lay on the floor with her palms under one side of her face. There was a man in the doorway. He slammed the door again, and Annie was jerked awake. In the sheets before her were the letters, contracts, and other articles. On the sheet before her, lay a pen and underneath the pen was a little scribble of a house on a hill. Annie narrowed her eyes to slits to try and see who was at the doorway while shielding her face with one hand from the light. Her eyes widened, as the man took a step across the threshold, and walked into the room. She screamed.

An hour later he walked back to the door, turned around, laughed and asked, “Annie! Are you happy?”

The only response that came from the dark was sobbing that continued long after the door was shut.

VII

Nobody opened the door for a long time. When it opened, there Annie lay. She wore a white gown and her hair was short. She was pale, and sickly looking. She lay on the ground and in her were a pair of scissors and before her a pile of paper shreds of different shapes and sizes.  Her wrists were barely able to support the heavy metal scissors in her hand. There was a man in the doorway again, from his silhouette she could tell he was wearing a coat. He mumbled to himself and flipped through a book in his hands.

He called out in a soft, polite, but firm voice, “Annie! Are you happy?”

“GET OUT!” she screamed, and lay her head back on the floor.

VIII

The light this time was a softer one that fell in through the doorway. Annie sat in a raggedy white gown, her hair longer, but dirtier. Her cheeks were sunken in, and she had baggy eyes. In her hand was a blue colour pencil.  She sat up straight with her legs folded in front her, her arms just hanging from her shoulders. She held the pencil loosely, barely gripping it between her fingers. Near her legs were many other colour pencils of different colours spread out among sheets of paper. Every sheet was blank. The man in the coat mumbled to himself again, flipped through his book and shook his head. Annie stared blankly back at him.

He called out, “Annie. Are you happy?”

“No.”

He shook his head more vigorously and shut the door.

IX

The door opened a month later, and the man in the coat called out for Annie.

“Annie! Are you happy?”

There was no response.

“Annie, are you there?”

Annie was not there in the light of the door. Instead there was only a single sheet of paper, on which was scrawled out in pencil the word:
Yes.

The man in the coat called out again, “Annie?”

He shook his head, and shut the door, plunging the room into darkness forever.

With frowning eyes, I turn up to the sun.
It's new, I'm old, there's a tragedy in that.
Escapades of last night peel off into layers,
And I wonder where I'm speechless with words.

The rays seem to poke holes where my soul existed,
My body is simply a sieve for varied intoxicants.
The light is still inadmissible, it wont bend to my nature,
Because guilt has blackened the sheen of my frame.

I rub my eyes; I wonder and groan at being awake,
I wander into my consciousness, and tap myself alive.
I think I understand the merit in being aware of me,
I think I understand why the body dies only once.

I stretch my flesh fully, and with it my coiled spirit,
An honest empathy from the bones encourages me.
I turn to look at the people around me arranged randomly,
Watch them still asleep in a world of haughty ignorance.

There's a totality in the addiction that lay me to waste,
For surely, enlightened minds are not filtered to believe?
Yet I can now only feel as a falling man might feel,
One now content with only falling and not why and he fell.

Curling my toes as a last sign of fatigue, I leap,
Bound into the green, past bottles and tobacco butts.
A heaviness is drifting away, a haze wearing off,
With a clear head I understand the clear sky again.

I stand in the grass and watch the day take full form,
Smile inwardly to myself at the ideas only I understand.
A warm summer breeze plays with the trees this winter,
And perhaps visions of last night are only illusions after all.

This winter is no longer just a season,
It is the perpetual setting of my mind.

Conversations With Myself.

Put yourself,

Before your faith.

Put yourself,

Before me.

Is it because you are alone under this blanket? Is it because you do not touch your own skin, for your cold fingertips might shock you? Something is steadily slipping by you, the onset of age, the passing of an experience you might miss out on. If only you could be aware of the million opportunities you posses all at once, and take them all, at the same time. Wouldn't that be wonderful? To know you've never made the mistake of choosing the incorrect answer. Yet you cannot, and your beating heart must once again be cajoled into silence. 

"Yes, I'm afraid.

Of what? Of myself. Of what tomorrow might bring. Will I be able to cope with the waves of turbulence throwing my world into disarray? I know, I must let go of the old, embrace the new and not heed the conscience that tells me otherwise. But I can no longer pretend to avoid eye contact with society. I can no longer hold a poker face while my friends and family recede into the giant wall of grey behind me"

This music is dulling your senses, and these pictures only make you wistful. Do you want to pervade into to the garish pixels of the computer screen and pull at those faces till they're distorted to the satisfaction of your vanity? Yet you can only sigh and silently curse them under your breath for gifts they were born with, ones which you were never even offered. You wonder if before your before your birth, cosmic beings deliberated upon the exactitude of your appearance, and if so, whether they had a personal vendetta against an unborn child. You chuckle, but not so loudly  as to disrupt the unattractive yet peculiarly ambiance elevating sound of snoring. Unfinished conversations pressure you to cease pondering and you wish you had someone to love, right there and then, under a pretentious blanket of real wool, under a pretentious sky made up of allegedly real stars you cannot see. So you turn over to your side and sleep, hoping thoughtless will wake you in the morning.

You cannot lay here,

Beseeching your own mind.

You cannot stay here,

Forever.

I'll draw Nazca lines across my heart,
So even from the sky your words can be read,
"There were no random reasons to love you,
There are no reasons for anything.", you said.

Worn

You enter through my mouth,
And exit through my soul,
darling, you're wearing me thin.
Like the garment you wore eve before last,
You're wearing me thin.

Push at the back of my throat.
Down into my stomach,
churning in my gut,
like masses singing choir songs,
in the temple of regret.

I'm knocking on your door,
like I'm knocking at your ego,
Inviting myself in, because i'm looking for love tonight.
I'm knocking on the pavement,
Like I'm knocking at myself,
losing self respect.
Because I was looking for love tonight.

Enter through my mouth,
and exit through my soul,
darling, you're wearing me thin.
Like those scraping noises in the gutter,
you're wearing me thin.

Cement, Six Buildings, Circles.

Everything he touched was cold. Winter had penetrated all and nothing around him, freezing every last bit of warmth into a clear, sharp cold. He dug his hands deeper into his pockets, clenching and unclenching his fingers to heat them with some blood flow. He had never imagined winters to be this way. They were always portrayed as beautiful, white snow-capped scenery with people in pretty winter coats and scarves, laughing and playing in frozen solitude. Instead, he found it out to be dry, harsh, with a searing sense of reproach toward anyone who dared to stand before it. The winds that escaped into the collar of his jacket were edged and they hacked at his skin, making him shiver like he had been immersed in cold water. It was lonely too. He’d been walking in circles for over 2 hours around the same 6 buildings, shuffling his feet over cement, hugging himself tighter with every passing minute. He narrowed his eyes and gritted his teeth, pushed against the winds. His body only wanted to be inside again, his mind however, refused to comply. Every now and then, he’d sneeze making his entire body convulse into a jittering bag of bones. But he kept on walking. There was something so hateful in that weather that translated his self-loathing for him. He need not despise himself; the seasons were doing it for him.  Something bitter stirred inside his mind, something to match the lack of warmth in the air. He wanted to be home so bad. He only wanted to climb into his double bed under his window that let in the sun and birdsong each morning. He closed his eyes for a moment, and sought the sun’s yellow light. First there was nothing, his mind was dark and blank. Then slowly a shimmer of pale light convalesced into a bright burning yellow fire.

He opened his eyes slowly. The pasty cream coloured ceiling patched and burnt was the background of his focus. The periphery of his vision was sparkling bright. Turning his head he noticed everything was tainted golden sepia. He heard birds! It was morning, he smiled. He was oddly aware that his entire body looked golden. Rolling his eyes to the back of his head, he was blinded by the light filtering in from the window, onto his hair, his face, his body and what he believed, his soul too. He had no memory of his dreams, but was certain they’d been pleasant. He rose slowly and deliberately enjoying the awakening of his muscles and bones. His favourite sheets slithered off his legs, his favourite painting hung on the wall to his right, and the table before him was just as chaotic as he’d left it. Stretching in bed, he yawned and closed his mouth in a goofy grin, not different from the ones he’d seen make as a child in photographs. He felt ready to start a new day and hopped off the bed. He rushed to his door and swung it open. He grinned again. The dining room was flooded with that gorgeous golden light; it made even the dullest object sparkle. He smelt food on the table and guessed there was even more food to come. He ran into the kitchen and hugged whatever figure stood in front of the stove from behind.  He clutched it tightly and murmured his thanks. There was no response. Something felt out of place about his. He stepped back to get a proper view of whom he’d hugged. It wasn’t mother, it wasn’t anything at all. There was no one there. Then whom had he hugged? He heard his lover call from the living room. Thoughts of his mystery mother dissipated and rushed to the other end of the house, smiling idiotically once again. He heard echoes of his name, and teasing laughter which he followed mechanically. The voice led him to the drawing room and then stopped. He looked frantically around the room and saw nobody. On the table in front of him was a crystal ashtray, with a half lit cigarette breathing wisps of smoke into the room, one glowing end flashing red, orange, yellow and then black.  Something rose and fell in his chest. He fell silent and walked out the front door.

The road was paved with dried leaves, bold blocks of sunburnt orange that crunched underneath his feet. As he walked, he passed under the shadow of a tree, temporarily banishing the bright glow on his skin. As he passed out from under the shadow, the glow did not return. He looked up and saw the sun had concealed itself in astonishingly grey clouds. He looked back down at the tar and kept on walking. He could not remember how much time had passed when he looked up again, it was cold now, and he was back where he had begun; cement, six buildings, circles. He clutched himself for a minute and stopped. He closed his eyes again, concentrating hard.

 A minute later he opened them and looked around:

Cement, six buildings, circles.