That is what I would call her. She flounders, sometimes, in the shallows of life. Her heart may seem weak, but I secretly know she is just sensitive. She thinks too deeply about things.
He says she is drowning in ‘her vortex’.
Why, she asks, do they write about sad things, and try to make jokes out of them?
I think about what she means. She means those dark comedy sitcoms. You know, where the family are poor and there are lots of rude sex jokes, and dirty people saying filthy things, and jokes about mental instability and emotional unavailability.
Those are dark things. She says, Things you should keep hidden away. Things you mustn’t make light of.
Because the world needs to see happiness and hope. Not misery accompanied by obnoxious music. If I am unhappy, why would I want to laugh at other people’s unhappiness?
It’s just a TV show.
People drink too much alcohol and are seen as ‘party types’, adventurous and daring. People have ‘daddy issues’ and are blunt and rude about other people. People joking about the pills they pop to hide their deepest pains. People unconscious because of intoxication. When did this become a norm in society? What happened to living and laughing and talking genuinely about real things?
It’s just.. a TV show, Poppy.
She dances quietly in the rain, sometimes. Her movements, although rhythm-less, have a certain cadence. The way her arms move around her head, the way her bare feet touch the wet grass, gently kissing the sodden blades before moving on to another spot. The way her throat supports her face, craned towards the pregnant, grey heavens.
I think, sometimes, that you have to let life into your skin.
I don’t know what that means, Poppy.
When she works, she is vigilant. She is furious. When she sleeps, she is restless. Her eyes are always wandering.
Once she saw an old lady outside with no stockings. She rushed indoors and brought her a cape. The old woman, pushing her trolley before her, shook her away irritably.
What do you think I am, senile?!
Poppy stared as she hobbled away down the road. I couldn’t read the expression on her face.
She was vibrant, alive. But there was always a heavy sadness clinging to her. In her eyes, sometimes, when she thought I wasn’t looking.
I feel lonely, Sebastian.
I’m here, Poppy.
I .. know.
Your life, always, over mine, Poppy.