A Composition of Soul

Lost. Perhaps, this is the word that most vividly captured Colla’s physical and psychiatric existence since that unfortunate day she gazed into a silent mirror and struggled to recognize herself. Sometimes she walked up to her bedroom mirror, which was covered in smudged fingerprints like a stained-glass window, and she would reach out and try to tap into specific features of her body: her eyes, her jawline, her ears, her torso, her waist. She would press down on the images she saw in the mirror until they fragmented from the rest of her body, and this disruption in the whole image allowed her curious insight into herself. This became a morning ritual, this wordless performance that was unsettlingly reflected back at her like a puppet. Yet, she found some kind of quasi-pleasure in the whole thing, and this encouraged her to approach the mirror each morning as the sun crept up the skyline. Sometimes the light would pour in from her bedroom window and splash onto the mirror, leaving a glare that would further split her body in pieces. It occurred to her that she can close the curtains to prevent this from happening, but something about the sunlight’s added fragmentation made the ritual seem more brilliant than it actually was-- holier.

After her morning ritual, Colla would move on to her mourning ritual. This took place each day in the kitchen. She stood before the sink, which always had an irritating drip throughout the night but in the daytime seemed rather rhythmic and soothing, and looked out the kitchen window that overlooked a deserted street. Nobody in the neighborhood was up this early, so all that moved outside her apartment was the insistent thrumming of nature. Still, even that was stalled at times. Colla instinctively gathered her hair at the nape of her neck and tied it into a knot in order to begin each mourning ritual. Next, she shifted her eyes toward the wilting orange tree across the street. Her vision strained to count all the orange blurs she spotted in the shades of green hovering just above the neighbor’s roof. That day, she only counted two. The day before, there had been three. Each day, there were less and less orange blurs. Less and less oranges. Less.

Colla’s mourning ritual was dedicated to grieving over her lost parts. Each day, more traces of herself disappeared. She didn’t know where they went, but she knew that ultimately they were meant to remain with her-- yet, she could not call them back. So, she looked out the window and tried to wish them back to her despite knowing it was all to no avail. Somehow the wishing, the mourning ritual of feeling her own hair and counting the decaying oranges at a distance, allowed her a fleeting feeling of hope. She didn’t like the idea of another person having a piece of her stained lips, or a moment of her laughter interrupting solemnity. She shuddered at the thought of someone holding her noema’s aesthetic in their hands, grazing their fingers along its chaotic edges and grinning at its flurrying sounds. She did not want to belong to anybody else, and she resented each part of her that was whisked into the world without her consent. Yet, each morning she woke up to more missing parts of her body, her mind, her emotions, her being; she felt she was becoming more disparate from her true self without a way to ever recapture that original, untouched image.

So, she would test the limits of her choric space. For the next part of her mourning ritual, she would tie a blindfold around her numb eyes and begin to chop up an apple. She no longer felt joy in mundane things. She would do this until something pierced her soul and coerced her into tearing off the blindfold, a flood of breath swarming her chest. This reminded her that she was still alive. But, the spurt of energy that accompanied this sudden recognition of life would too decay, and she could feel more traces slowly releasing from her skin, like tadpoles blindly swimming around in a pond, swirling around with nowhere purposeful to go. Then, they’d vanish-- gone from her, without a moment’s pause to let her give her sad farewells. That day, she lost sympathy, a part of herself she was overly criticized for, anyway. She didn’t lose judgment, though; and this may have been the only part of herself she’d gladly give away, if she knew how to give.

As the mourning ritual came to its inevitable end, Colla would always have an arresting sensation absorb her-- some intuition or irony that signaled her awareness that she had no idea how to truly give of herself to others, despite all these traces of herself leaving her every day. This juxtaposition halted Colla, seizing her sensibilities and prohibiting her from moving on until she thought through the idea entirely. She thought, maybe, she wasn’t alone in this: perhaps, all human beings had trouble giving of themselves in a way that was truly authentic? For, if one gives of oneself too much, what shall they keep that is only for them? Colla felt, deep inside the residual traits she managed to keep with her, that she could not bear to part with these intimacies for the sake of another person because it would make her own aloneness unbearable. Colla hallowed her unique identity; she viewed her solitude as the truest part of her soul-- and she knew that her reverence of such made it so that she could not freely be selfless. Still, she was made more and more self-less every day, without any say in the matter. And, this nearly drove her mad.

Colla dreaded leaving her apartment. Walking down the street carried with it the anticipation of regarding other peoples’ lost traces-- their voice(s), their bodies, their aesthetics and noemas and qualities that hung in the air, asking where to go. Colla put on her coat and studied her face in the mirror once more: she was so tired of her face being a receptacle for invention for those around her. Why should her joys or sorrows matter to anybody else? Was her worth always to be measured by her abilities to exchange pleasantries and cast a warm smile? Would not anybody reach out to her just to confess that they revere their loneliness, too, and that she was okay to feel this way? Colla knew, intuitively again, that it was the madness inside her that drove her to ask such fruitless questions. She knew she only asked these questions to feel that brief, lingering burst of hope swell inside her chest before she somberly traced on her dark lipstick while birds chattered outside her window like opera singers. As her front door swung shut, Colla, while walking, dipped her hand into the paperbag of disproportionately cut apple slices from her earlier attempt at feeling. She bit into each crunchy piece and tried to savor the sour juices blanketing her tongue. Faces whisked past Colla like blank canvases, each waiting for her to pick them and make them belong to her or her to them. Colla just wasn’t in the mood today. She ate her apple slowly and dropped her gaze to the sidewalk beneath her, not wanting their pleading voiceless bodies to disrupt her morning just yet. As she turned the corner, nearly arriving at her usual coffee spot, she felt a trace of herself leave once more. She ceased her movement and darted her eyes around the street, seeing blank canvases and more-invented people busily squeezing past one another, like herds of fish swimming upstream. Her gaze remained alert until, finally, she caught a glimpse of herself on somebody else: her freckled nose on the face of somebody she didn’t recognize; and, they had reinvented it already, making it smaller and sloped-- more ideal. Colla reached her hand up to the spot on her face where her nose would be-- and she felt the strange bump that had taken its place, no longer something she recognized and not yet reinvented to belong to her completely. She felt the humiliation and anger wash over her as she quickly moved past some blank canvases and into the doors of the coffee shop.

Inside, classical music was gently cooing through speakers. Colla instinctively pulled out her ear plugs from the pockets of her coat and held onto them tightly as she waited in line. Nobody else in the shop had on earplugs, and she always feared her preference to blot out the noise and social interaction made her look selfish. But, Colla couldn’t help it-- the thought of talking to, or even making eye contact with, someone who potentially only wanted to take more from her only affirmed her desire to remain alone. Still, she came to the coffee shop every day as another artless effort to feel something. She used to love coming to this shop, taking the time to compose an outfit special for the occasion; she would bring her journal and write poetry and take interest in others nearby if coincidental glances locked into place. She used to feel happy in the presence of other people, but ever since her traces began leaving her and she saw the ruthlessness of others in pillaging them from herself and others, she would rather sit in her own numbness and feign moments of liveliness through wordless performances-- like the smudged-glass mirror and orange blur-counting. Colla ordered her coffee and sat down in one of the more private areas of the shop for her performance-- reducing her chances of being adjudicated by the other people, whose collected traces were already remixed and reinvented to suit their purposes. As Colla sat down, she blushed at the few passing eyes over her nose-lessness, knowing they were questioning her and her lack of invention.

She slowly inserted her earplugs, the noisy orchestra of classical music gradually fading away. As she drank her coffee in silence, a voice she didn’t recognize began recalling her earlier daydream: her original body, in its original form, dancing softly to pretty 80s synth pop that had long been lost. Her body swayed freely, enveloped by the warm scent of slow-cooked ribs and her own perfume. She laughed loudly-- she had belly guffaws!-- and she felt such happiness and wonderstruck and enchantment by all that surrounded her. She was curious about things. She enjoyed stepping into a circle of dusty pink tutu frill that adorned her carpet like a halo, only to shimmy it up her legs and around her wide waist. She felt elation seeing the stretch marks on her hips change as the days and months and years passed, as if she was scientifically studying tree rings and measuring for age and wisdom. Her pleasures resided within warming up small corn tortillas in an egg-frying pan, topping them with queso fresco, and devouring them while they were piping hot. She fell in love with imagining lovers reciting beautiful poetry to her, endowing her in such opulent languageness that no other orgasm could compare. She lived for watering plants and long phone calls and complex math problems and skinny dipping and finger painting. She enjoyed playing and questioning and being. Most of all, she enjoyed being.

“Excuse me,” these words punctured Colla’s reminiscence. She looked up to see a blank canvas hovering over her. The blank canvas was sparingly adorned, just a pair of remixed hazel eyes, a small bump in place of a nose, a plain mouth, and small ears that stuck straight out. Everything else was missing, waiting to collect traces from others that escaped those already fully invented and nuanced. Special.

“Yes?” Colla murmured tentatively while self-consciously removing her earplugs.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” the blank canvas said, “but you’ve spilled your drink all over yourself.” Colla suddenly felt aware of the intense heat on her palms and put down the dripping mug, her eyes dropping to see brown liquid staining and stinging her legs. Embarrassed, she reached for some napkins and began wiping up the mess. “I must have...drifted away,” Colla mumbled. The blank canvas just stared with flat, pursed lips. Then, they paused and surveyed the room before sitting down beside Colla. “Do you wear earplugs so that you’re able to... drift? To drown out all the sound?”

The napkins were now soaked with coffee, but Colla’s legs were still dripping. She looked at the blank canvas hesitantly before nodding a bit, “Um...well, why...yes.” She set the crumpled, soiled napkins beside the mug on the table. “It’s...it’s not that I don’t care--”

“I wish I could drift.” The blank canvas interrupted, an eagerness in their voice.

“Um...well,” Colla turned her earplugs over in her hand as she struggled to find words to respond. “I...like to have a routine. It helps me to daydream about...before...more easily.” She awkwardly began to touch her hand to her nose, simultaneously self-conscious and comforted by the blank canvas’s untouched nose.

“Routine is hard when you’re like this,” the blank canvas murmured. Colla felt a pang of sadness for the blank canvas, while at the same time tensing up as if to keep her own traces closer to herself-- protected. “What is your name?” Colla asked after some time had passed. The blank canvas’s sharp hazel eyes, the most distinctive feature they possessed, jolted up to meet Colla’s gaze. Colla guessed the blank canvas’s eyes were the thing they were most proud of in their entire life, given the certain state of things. Everything else about them was unfinished. Stolen away. “Desolette,” they said quietly, their eyes dropping back down to their hands. “I need some type of routine,” they said while shrouding themself more snugly in their black cardigan. “I miss being me.” Colla felt a strange connection to Desolette, then. She thought she’d never connect to a blank canvas, given that they’d take the traces of others, like herself. Then again, she thought-- blank canvases were once people, too-- their traces collected like antiques in a flea market and left as a blank slate.

Colla thought everybody wanted a blank slate. She surely did, when she was younger. She used to hate her body-- she’d call herself names and complain about the way she looked. She’d belly-ache about the way she felt. She used to wish she could be somebody else-- to look like the people she thought were beautiful, or to feel what others would describe as happiness. So, she would perform these qualities she saw in other people-- the makeup, the clothing, the hair, the language she’d speak in. Ironically, the only time Colla believed she was really happy was when she was in her room dancing and laughing, all by herself-- not thinking of anything but her own body and the music she loved playing, when she finally saw the enchantment in her body’s markings, the wonder in her own mundane activities. She regretted that she had not recognized the beauty and joy she exuded then. Now, those traces of herself belonged to other people she’d never met before. She would quietly recite her hopes, to herself at night before bed, that those people were at least keeping her traces as they were found. Her nightly ritual. The thought of those traces, that made up those beloved memories, being altered and changed was perhaps the most painful thing Colla was capable of feeling. Everything else was a performance of what she remembered feeling being.

“I miss being myself, too.” Colla spoke the words she thought she’d never admit, “Not many people talk about it.”

“At least you’re basically a person,” Desolette said, “I’m nothing. Empty. These eyes are the only things that make me feel human. They’re the only thing I have left.”

Colla, surprised, asked, “Those eyes are your original eyes?”

“Yes,” Desolette murmured, closing their eyes as if reflexively protective. “These are mine,” they touched their fingers to the corner of their right eye, “They haven’t been taken yet.” Colla searched Desolette’s face for their noema-- she couldn’t sense one in them. “Do you still have your true noema?” She asked hesitantly.

“No,” Desolette batted their eyes open, “But, I didn’t care much for my noema anyway. And, thoughts always change, right?”

“I suppose,” Colla slipped the earplugs back into her pockets. As she watched Desolette, she felt a slow stirring in the pit of her stomach. Colla almost felt as if she wanted to give a trace of herself to Desolette, so that she could feel a little more human, perhaps. She thought, maybe she could give of herself to somebody else-- maybe, they could both be more alive.

“Well, sorry to interrupt you,” Desolette began to stand back up. As they began to turn, Colla unwillingly blurted, “Wait, you don’t want to take something from me? Isn’t that why you came over?”

Desolette looked at Colla from over their blank, unformed shoulder, “I don’t want anything from you. I just want me back.” Then, in a flash, their hazel eyes disappeared, drifting away from Colla’s sight as Desolette walked away. She couldn’t tell if Desolette’s last remaining trace had just been stolen, or if Desolette had just escaped her view. Colla sat there, the spilled coffee remaining in her lap, as she searched the shop for Desolette’s eyes. Slowly, everything began sifting from her view. Figures and shapes in the shop became formless, and colors began seeping out the sides of her vision like spilt paint. Colla’s body became arrested, silent, as the pain of her eyes leaving her trickled out from her mind. She sat there, fixed in the crochet of lonesomeness and new darkness, as Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7 swelled around her. In her shudders of fear and instinct, she clutched onto her earplugs with the intent of blocking out all of the sound, to get it all out of her head; as she reached up to insert her earplugs, though, in the nothingness of all around her, she felt her hands softly collapse in the vanilla-warmth of her lap. And, she listened to the music play.