Little Hands Clapping
“As it idled at the platform she took a pen and pad from her bag and started making notes. She wrote that she felt as if she was being attacked by the world and by herself, and as if barbs were tearing at her skin. She read this back and could see how inadequate it was, how it didn’t come close to capturing how she really felt. Knowing she had to do better she carried on, writing that she hated herself, that she was an idiot, and a liar, and dangerous. She said she could see no light, that she k...new she could never be a worthwhile person, or a happy one. This was more like it, but as she went on it became clear that so many of the feelings that were assaulting her couldn’t be pinned down by language: they were unique to her, and there was no reason for anybody to have come up with words for them. There were so many of them too, each one different from the next. She thought for a moment of the eyes of a fly, but flies’ eyes were orderly, and her feelings were a mess. To capture and record them she would have to create a whole new lexicon, and that would be pointless because only she would be able to understand it, and anyway most of these feelings didn’t give her nearly enough time to evaluate them, they just burst into her life for a moment, spitting their venom before going away to be replaced by something similar in its ferocity but different in every other way.MoreLess
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