There it is. All laid out for her to see,  scrutinise, judge. Childhood and the teenage years till now. Moments of delight and those of anguish. I presented it to her as a work of fiction. But then again, what am I but a story? Somewhere in the impenetrable maze of my words and tears, in the midst of those uncountable hours spent on the Victorian divan, it hit me how very inconsequential my life is. 

Every Saturday morning for six months, basking in the diffused sunlight coming in through the French windows, I pondered on the tiniest details of my existence for an audience of one. The endless stream of people from all walks of life carried on outside on the street, utterly unaware of the effect their indifference to me had on me. As the minutes passed by and the emotions came gushing out, those people fused together in my mind to become an impregnable fortress that I was inexcusably incapable of comprehending. 

Failure is all that I was. A failure at making a place among them. If living was the ultimate social experiment, I could not even begin to grasp its concept. However, in the grand scheme of things, I matter less than a speck of dust. All individuals do, do they not? Successes and failures, high flyers and bottom grinders, we all matter so little. And yet, I could not help but lament my defeat. 

I tried explaining this to her, one particularly lazy morning. In fact, I often told her these bits and pieces of me. The expression on her face never changed. Cemented in her mask of blankness, as though perpetually floating in limbo, she never let her personality breakthrough. Once, when I inquired about this phenomenon, her only remark was, "When you are subjected to teenagers' nihilistic streams of consciousness multiple times on a daily basis, what can you do but listen calmly?" 

Even now, as I have at last reached the conclusion of my tale, her countenance remains the same. Serene, was untroubled, and attentive. Bearing vague hints of fatigue. Eyes fixed on the tablet in her hands, she calls to mind a picture of one of those Greek sculptures. My lips quiver slightly as I gaze at her, awaiting her impending verdict. Bi-polar, borderline personality or some other incurable disorder— what else can it even be? It does not take much to conclude how big of a mess I am. I just need a label, to know where I belong. With a sigh, she begins. 

Social Experiment || Adrita Zaima Islam