Since, A Novel

ii. A HUNGER THAT EATS (THE GIRL)

ii.
A HUNGER THAT EATS (THE GIRL)

               October 2023—the present. Something quite murderous is happening in the gist of being the "omniscient creature" going after its own tireless pleasure and wanting that would prove, more than once, that it was not of lush, and it was not of the highest power after all—to realize that this being will be digging more burial pits for its losses (and soon for its own body). But that is the thing: it yearns for a body outside of this world, one that will take the creature with it for a permanent escapism; to be a permanent loss contrary to the bitterness of continual losing; an outside chance for one pure and final absolution (maybe, the creature hopes); a body that will know and cradle and pledge to each other's ownership, that there'd be a silent glory in the closeness, that there'd be a feast in the gaps, that they'd live in the comforts of sharing the upper-hand, that there'd be a victory in wanting to be perceived as the changeless thing, which also differs from anything and everything else.

But how much wanting exactly is ever enough if one does not act upon it, for instance, the being? Would it forever be beaten in just having ideas, just having beliefs? To be consumed by one's theory but go past the act of execution? Because maybe it'll hurt? Of course, it will hurt. Maybe these things were the first devouts of the hedonic paradox, but also were murderers of hedonism itself.

     The being must have a plan now; to go after her wants but for no self-satiation, and let the good things seethe and rave if they must, that, lastly, intimacy will no longer be faceless after the long wait for the body's revelation, one that is in the bittersweet likeness of her: a pleasure that starves.

Crumpled papers were seen scattered on the floor, pens, too. Bookmarks? Sure. But not the books—it was not like they have been read, let alone opened. Days-old snack wrappers and opened mails and hems of unfinished mittens and leg warmers and little scarves all laid idly on the desk of the favourite corner in the little room of the eighteen-year-old Ara. She owned an old torso mannequin and quite a lot was going on in that medium-sized mannequin: an unfinished cardigan she started crocheting a couple of days ago—she tended to space out while hooking the loops and it was either she breathed too loud or thought too deeply, messing the whole thing up—and an attempt on a multi-way top which she thought was cute at first, to which she had eventually gave up on because of its pattern she made herself—it was one of the pins saved on her boards for months, and then years, and it was decided that the whole thing had to be made from scratch, and so she took a thing or two from her wardrobe and made a sketch all out of it—and then everything was all above her head.

And her hands were cold. And everything did not go well when her hands are cold. What gave and who was to blame? There was only one person who used the bed. There was only one person who didn't know it was a Tuesday. Only one person with a messy room. And she knew she had the attention span of a fish, yes, like Dory. She wished she had finished the pair of mittens, she thought about all the old motives she had before, where they are, if they are coming back, when they are coming back. Now, she was not too eager to know. "Why are you cold again?" she murmured, her eyes at hands.

It was the tip of October and she'd wanted herself back; it was less than enough—she kept thinking about this hunger for a while now; the hunger for bigger things; the things her hands have been itching to make, all the good out there; they could bring the gentle days back. But the feeling of being unmade had sunk deep  into her pores—there was that type of hunger that cared too little whether or not its host was alive, it had to eat.