WELL

Today I peered into the well. I pushed aside the heavy oak kalpa and looked down into the cool, damp abyss of the interior, reeking of mustiness and half-rotten algae. I saw the reflection of a face. The face of a thirty-two-year-old woman. A face not yet old, but on which time and experience had left their indelible mark. I didn't see the lines that lined the corners of her mouth, perhaps because the sand particles rustling downward had disturbed the smooth image in the water's mirror, but I saw dark, almond-shaped eyes, around which eyelashes arranged in two rows like blades of grass. Eyes, as the wise men of this world say, are the mirror of the soul. They will tell you everything, if only you are willing to look into their depths and listen to the sounds of prophecy. You can read a lot from the eyes, most certainly the past, which, like the chisel of a talented sculptor, shapes our character and personality. A person with a face peering out of a well must have gone through a lot in their present and past life. It doesn't really matter, because every time and space leaves its mark in the eyes. Do I prefer solitude...? Yes, I definitely prefer solitude to the nightmare of experiencing other people's nightmares... emotional ones... Especially if those nightmares stem from a lack of maturity... and I prefer silence, which is the inseparable companion of loneliness. In this terrifying, depressing, deafening silence, I will always find time to rediscover myself, my fears, which express themselves in a racing heartbeat, through which blood flows to the rhythm of music known only to me, sustaining, regardless of our will, the gift of fate—our life. Because of this pounding of my own heartbeat, I can't focus on finding my own thoughts. I picture myself lying on the couch, gazing in amazement at every corner of my own home, which I know so well... after all, I thoroughly clean every nook and cranny at least three times a week. I sweep away with a broom the sorrows and memories of people who have visited me. They stopped by briefly to share their lives and then continued their journey through its wilderness. Later, I carefully wipe down the furniture with a damp cloth, where the words that hold the essence of all those terrible stories lurk. I perform these tasks meticulously; after all, I'm a stickler for solitude, and I have time... Plenty of time for solitude. Solitude is an inexhaustible time that we can't utilize. Yes, those who haven't had to talk about it with themselves weren't lonely. I wonder what loneliness tastes like?...bitter?...astringent?...nauseating...and finally sour...and that ubiquitous silence, resonating in my mind like the sound of a monastery bell. A single, repetitive tone, driving me insane. The ringing in my ears becomes unbearable. Like a drop boring into a rock, it creeps into my brain, overpowering and paralyzing it....I definitely prefer loneliness!!!!...PLEASE! Stop kidding yourself, damn it.

I no longer see the tired face, nor the almond eyes peering out from it. I no longer hear the silence. With great painstaking effort, I filled in the well. After all, I've had a tap in my house... for about thirty-two years.... Someone knocked on my door... I will no longer erase the memories of HIM....