[Image by SadGirl311 at Deviant Art.]
There are days when I wish I was a mime artist. Acting out my responses to life in a solitary cabaret.
White face, chic clothing, hair pulled back in a bun. Long black gloves.
How freeing to have no voice. An alphabet of gestures and shadows.
There would be no regrets for things said or inferred. People would expect my gestures to be exaggerated. I would be associated with melodrama but not blamed for it. I could respond with horror if I wished to. Or sadness.
If my sister told me she is the happiest she’s ever been in her life, with one eye on me and the other, fearfully, on the object of her affection, I wouldn’t need to smile and say That’s great; teeth clenched like a bear trap.
I could pull an enormous silk handkerchief from my pocket and cry a single tear, sparkling as a diamond. People would laugh, thinking it was part of the act. I would not be accused of being unforgiving.
I wouldn’t need to say anything at all. I could just stand, mouth turned down at the corners, holding a faded paper rose with a bent stem. People would know how I felt, but they wouldn’t blame me for it.
Perhaps the silence would make all things clean. What are words but thoughts brought to life? And some thoughts, many thoughts should stay in the dark furrows of the mind.
It is my dream now. Variations on the theme of speech. A cryptic dance. My face can be dark behind the white make-up and no one will know. They will think it is a trick of the light.