I observe her life from my home in the corner of her room. Despite my limited line of vision, I know all about the goings-on in her school and in the rest of her house. Even in her mind. I feel somewhat privileged to be the one she chose to confide in. To bare her very soul to.
Yet I feel frustrated that I can’t do anything else.
Beside for sitting here in my corner, every day, and waiting for her to caress me with her pen. And when that time comes, when she comes with her ink and thoughts to me, I feel even more frustrated. She tells me about school. She shares with me her closest relationships. She piles her stress onto me. She confides in me her deepest fears. She informs me of her highest goals. She exposes her rawest pains, right in my face.
I can’t correct her. I can’t comfort her. I can’t tell her what to do in situations. I can’t console her fears. I can’t erase her stress. I can’t help her near her goals. And I can’t even share with her my life, my feelings, my goals, my fears, my pain. I can’t tell her about my loneliness, my frustrations and my feelings of utter uselessness. I can only lie on the desk idly as she shows me her life. She doesn’t even realize that I too have my own feelings. I feel sore when I fall on the floor, I feel sad when she does, I feel so helpless because I can’t help her.
I’m her lifeline. She often tells me that. She uses me so often, I know her like the back of my hand. She weeps her salty tears into my binding and tells me how unfair life is. If only she could see life from my vantage point. She is so absorbed in her own world, she doesn’t see the other perspective. Maybe her best friend is not there for her at the moment because she is going through a rough time herself. Maybe she didn’t get the solo in the choir because Ayelet actually sings that part better than her. Maybe she is not destined to be top of the class. And maybe Mommy has not been so available to her because she needs some rest with the new baby and all. And maybe, just maybe, she is so much taller than the rest of her classmates because that’s just the way she was meant to be.
But who am I to tell these things to her? I’m just here to absorb the angry words, not to advise. I’m just here to sit in the corner all day, to fall on the floor, and to cry to.
I sigh deeply, and survey yesterday’s entry. She will probably never see things from my perspective. After all, she’s not a feint-ruled notebook.