inadvertent similarities

Summer comes to a close; in a disarray of virtual documents that will eventually be strung into something not quite as disconnected as now, I write fervently.

The novel, which I've been talking about far too much since I gave myself permission to, figuratively tells the story of a commiserative culture of encouragement through the eyes of three sisters(or rather two) that are terribly innocent in their own ways, yet feverishly corrupted by the fear and the world around them. They began to lose themselves and each other along the way, and suddenly, there are nothing but gestures in their midst, gestures that are meaningless shells of raw, unapologetic communication. The glory of the story, however, is that they find so much of themselves along the way, and find, therein, that they are so much more than they could have ever imagined.

 I looked through my shelves yesterday, found so many books that carried that same sense of loss, the loss of proximity of those that started close to you and the parting of ways. I thought, well, I've worked at this tirelessly for over three years and I still have nothing original.
This has been regularly punctuated with photos so far; my best, in my mind. The butterfly(second) is the one I pride myself the most on. I am a big and noisy creature equipped with an iPhone in a 3-sided case, so that I must grip the bottom of the device firmly with a thumb as I tap to focus, then shuffle about the have the best view of whatever raindrop my obsession lies with at the moment. The butterfly landed on a flower, and my friend, a quieter person than I, pointed it out to me, gently. The butterfly stayed, wings rustling, and I began my routine, shuffling forward then leaning in so close our noses almost touched. Then I clicked and clicked away as it pollinated.

I smiled at the thought of the picture as we drove home.

Recently(and Beth knows this) I've been shopping for a camera. I glanced at Sonys, then Canons, then Nikons. Somewhere there, it lay, another gleaming orange butterfly that was so much more detailed than mine. I felt exasperation first.

But, had he, the professional photographer, leaned in so close as I had in the moment he'd snapped the shot? Had he observed the twitching of the creature's feet as is kissed the flower, delicately?

There are so many ways, but behind each, there is a story. We are all, in this world, a community of feelings that are indescribably linked, but we are all so different. When it comes to outlines, no matter how deep they lie, there is always something within, something more. Like rings, on a tree.


Rose said...

Hello. I'm Rose and I recently started to follow your blog. Kirthi, my best friend, told me about it and I am really impressed with your posts. You are such an amazing writer! So descriptive with great imagery and your ideas are so original and just wonderful! I look forward to many more great posts in the future.

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pinkapplecore said...

don't feel deflated, You could put ten people in a room and have them write about a red balloon and they all would have a different perspective on it. There might be other books that have the same subject but but they're not written like yours.

Julia said...

@pinkapplecore That's sweet of you. ;)

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in the wake of light, your words bring me more(please, do leave your fingerprints behind, so I may relish the image of our hands after you go.)