The crunching sound fills her ears. The ocean moves with a purpose and crunches on the shore, determined to catch any creature that stands too close. She watches the ocean’s pulse, unafraid, her gaze unwavering. She lives without remorse, always moving forward – no feelings to cut off her head.
(I watch her, for I am a lonely one, no head. I lost it long ago. She has something I want, something stable I need. Perhaps I can suck it out of her? If she is mine, will her strength be mine too?)
She likes to sit here and write by the ocean, without a day of rest. She exists happily somehow. She holds a notebook in her lap, a blue ballpoint pen holding her notebook slightly ajar. Her fingers hold its spine. She is thinking, on pause, and waiting for the next sea breeze to rush into her body, out through her pen and manifest on the page.
(Is she not stretched trying to keep the thinking inside? Does her world not shatter, does she not implode, explode, do something? Explosions are what make us human. Or that’s what makes me this kind of human. The headless kind.)
hiroshima: don’t you know that the people were gone in seconds? is it bad that i feel jealous sometimes? is it bad that i just want to be the one who dies, but whose journal lives? or the one to stops the bomb and saves thousands? people would love me either way. either i’m the potential that never lived or the sacrificial lamb. those people are purposeful, right?
(I guess the issue is that since I lost my head, I don’t exist. If I died now, no one would remember me, no one would mourn me. I can’t touch anyone.)
She doesn’t worry about the future generations at museums, staring at the artwork she poured her life into and that only became famous when she died. She doesn’t seem to care that her legacy will be manifested, not in her body, but on a page that she, a dead girl, wrote on.
(I wonder what it would be like to live without thinking of the end. I am constantly the one who wants to be in love with death, who searches on websites for those sicker than I to find some kind of connection. My connections are strong at times but fade so quickly. I am filled with life but then I die. It is a never-ending cycle of trying to stay full. I am never in love with death for long. Since I lost my head, I haven’t been able to love anything, not even the most destructive of things.)
world war 1: i’m an idiot. but so is everyone else. I don’t really think I could really have been the one who stopped the war. but i fantasise that I stop all the murder, that I live without hurting and help instead of poisoning. people died in the name of stupidity. the stupidity of human beings. everyone saw the conflict coming, but no one saw the deaths marching ahead of us. no one ever sees disastrous cascades of corpses falling down the battlefields.
(I can’t save anyone. I don’t even make a dent.)
She is still sitting there writing. She’s probably writing something fictional, her world is stable enough to leave it and create something new. I, on the other hand, am still writing to rebuild. I never stop rebuilding.
World War 2: I wish I wanted to die to stop Hitler. Could I become a suicide bomber to kill Hitler, to stop the whole thing? Is that what joining the military feels like? I don’t think I deserve life, for I spend half of it thinking about death. I wish I wasn’t so selfish. I wish I wanted to die to save them all.
(I think I will stay here. Writing about living and dying, suffering, happiness and all the believers and nonbelievers. I am all too ready for people to die for me, but I cannot sacrifice myself. I’m not like her at all.)
She sits on rocks. The ocean chants, bringing inspiration with each swell. There are green trees growing just feet behind her back, the breeze touches their leaves and sings. The branches echo the song back. They sing in time with the beauty of air given a purpose.
She will write about her boyfriend. She will write about love. She will write about nature, about worlds where people come together to defeat oppression. She saves lives with her words, she feels it and I feel it too.
(I will sit here. Drowning. Pages are wet. I am not quite as marvellous as you. I can deceive anyone but you.)