Friday, April 09, 2004
May's Madness
May opened her eyes to the white ceiling above her, the transparent specks of last night's mascara gliding across her eyeballs like pucks on an air hockey table, each blink another strike which sent it gliding in another direction. She spectated for five minutes while her mind set to work listing all the things she would have to think about today. Was George really who she thought he was? Would she ever know? There were too many hints, too many silent moments between them, to classify it as a mere possibility. May was waiting for the truth, or waiting to learn there was no truth, so that she could determine whether she had gone mad or not. The occassional look in George's eyes which said there was a part of him she didn't know that was scared, serious, or angry. "Do you agree with what the professor says?" asked George. The madness that had long ago staged a massive coup over Betty's imagination told her that George was asking a serious question and that she needed to answer it carefully or at least vaguely. "Its not what he says, its the way he says it... Its just not professional," replied May.
May read somewhere that when people form conspiracy theories, they find them hard to shake off because every new incident is interpreted as a new piece of evidence supporting the theory. May tried everyday to forget what her overactive imagination was trying to convince her of. Often for weeks at a time she succeeded in shaking it, but then another unsual reaction from George would set her off again.
George was in no way mysterious but there was something about his manner that suggested his experiences over the years may have been different to those he had talked about. Even as she consciously filtered from her mind what was only imagined out of what was real, there remained a gut instinct, independant from her imagination, that told her George was not all he said he was. It was this instinct with which she allowed herself to feel comfortable and sane. Never ever would she dismiss the possibility, even if she wanted to, as it had grown too strong. ¶ 16:33
May opened her eyes to the white ceiling above her, the transparent specks of last night's mascara gliding across her eyeballs like pucks on an air hockey table, each blink another strike which sent it gliding in another direction. She spectated for five minutes while her mind set to work listing all the things she would have to think about today. Was George really who she thought he was? Would she ever know? There were too many hints, too many silent moments between them, to classify it as a mere possibility. May was waiting for the truth, or waiting to learn there was no truth, so that she could determine whether she had gone mad or not. The occassional look in George's eyes which said there was a part of him she didn't know that was scared, serious, or angry. "Do you agree with what the professor says?" asked George. The madness that had long ago staged a massive coup over Betty's imagination told her that George was asking a serious question and that she needed to answer it carefully or at least vaguely. "Its not what he says, its the way he says it... Its just not professional," replied May.
May read somewhere that when people form conspiracy theories, they find them hard to shake off because every new incident is interpreted as a new piece of evidence supporting the theory. May tried everyday to forget what her overactive imagination was trying to convince her of. Often for weeks at a time she succeeded in shaking it, but then another unsual reaction from George would set her off again.
George was in no way mysterious but there was something about his manner that suggested his experiences over the years may have been different to those he had talked about. Even as she consciously filtered from her mind what was only imagined out of what was real, there remained a gut instinct, independant from her imagination, that told her George was not all he said he was. It was this instinct with which she allowed herself to feel comfortable and sane. Never ever would she dismiss the possibility, even if she wanted to, as it had grown too strong. ¶ 16:33
