That's a Hard Question
A woman, a needle woman, came across herself in a coffeeshop bathroom mirror. She pressed her thin fingers into her sunken cheeks, stared for a minute, then crinkled a brown paper towel and disposed of it purely for routine. He thought she emerged wobbly, the needle woman, with focus only in the tips of her pointy fingers. He watched as she tipped over to sit. She laid her long fingers in her lap, tapping a chaotic reality as her smile lied nicely. Sorry that took so long.
He smiled back, but gently deepened his questioning. It seemed to take her by surprise.
I don't know, I just grew up thinking my brain worked differently. She explained. I always smashed my adjectives together. She shifted in her chair, glanced to him for reassurance, then around the room. Finding none, she raised her palm in front of her face. This is a stupid example, but I might describe my fingers as thin pointy long.
I just did. He thought.
She noticed herself in his eyes and proceeded. But I'd continue with a string of twenty adjectives. Until I made no sense. It's like my brain speaks in emotions more complex than language, you know. She paused to find the right words. I think I think like music.
Charles Spearin - Marisa (mp3)
[Learn more about The Happiness Project which illuminates melodies in the natural cadence of speech]