Diane

A beautiful congregation of instruments, both classical and synthesised, play in my ears. It soothes down, shoots up, drops and fades. A new song plays.

It’s a new song with a new beat, a new rhythm and a new permutation of congregation of beautifully crafted music – the electric guitar, drums and an incredibly raw, soulful voice. The human larynx is so uncannily fit to string out near perfect notes.

I’ll stop rambling; I promised myself that I wouldn’t be one of those boring writers who draw up elegant, monotonously unscrutinisable literature. I shall be the funniest person to have ever lived on this beautiful planet that we call the Earth. Hilarious.

Now that we’re done with the obligatory introduction to the general setting that I’ve confined myself to to conjure some weird-ass touchy situation to bring out a bleeding writer, let’s distract ourselves with the story of Diane, an impulsive little woman.

Before y’all attack me for calling a woman ‘little’, I’d like to state for the record that I am, as unbelievable as it might sound, a little woman too. Yes, women. Now that I have established myself as a hilarious, fun soul, let’s start with the story. Promise.

Diane is someone I saw myself in: someone who wants to write but simply can’t simply due to undecipherable noise in her head, someone who can’t really enjoy being in a large group of people who have the spotlight, and someone who is anxious, depressed and timid.

Diane is a stark writer, an avid reader, an interesting soul with the mind of Byron and the aura of a 90's grunge girl with a sharp, blue edge to her. Since Diane hates being the center of attraction, I shall describe only one hour of her whole, entire life.

It’s eight A.M. in the morning; she’s sleeping with her neck against the bed’s railing. Water bottles lie across her tiny room. Diane wakes up in a doozy; she frequently forgets to look at the painting of the dopamine molecule she oh-so-self-care'dly painted on her rented wall. She’s weirdly upset in the morning. Her heart doesn’t hurt, but her mind’s not in a frenzy, which worried her. And me.

She’s weirdly demotivated to start the day. Diane pushes her comforter off of herself, and looks at the mirror; when had this become ritual to her morning? Her bangs stand upright and her eyes are sunken with six sad, forced hours of sleep. She groans and takes to the washroom.

Both you and I know why, Diane feels dejected in the morning. In her head she knew she had to draw a line. She knew it. The left side of her cerebrum knew what was up, but her other side didn’t want to admit it. She’s tired; it’s been a week - a week more than it should’ve been.

Diane was tired of picking up the mess he left her in. She was tired of facing the world on combat mode: jumpy and skeptical. She was tired of caring for a world so judgemental and unforgiving.

She left him, feeling lost, unloved, dejected, but finally calm. A person grew stronger today.