Woman In Gray

She was standing there in front of a valuable, desirable car, with her bare feet, her uneasy look, and a cigarette in between her fingers. She wore a plain, lengthy dress which suited her perfectly. She had agonizingly deep looking eyes which told everything one had to know about her just by looking. They were full of meaning, gloom, anguish, the experience life had made her go through. Wherever she looked she set on fire. She was able to bore through someone just by looking. She didn’t talk, didn’t need to. Her eyes did the talking, she was only meant to look, look and make the viewer suffer, suffer from an unknown feeling.

She was pure beautiful. Her face didn’t seem to be much wrinkled, but she looked old. She was old. And gray. Wheat-skinned. She had brown hair, maybe gray, but not white. Although, a single strand of hers had whitened. She was the palest thing in the black and white picture. She had had a life as gray as the picture. But that was what made her beautiful. She represented way, way more than just a woman in a picture.

I could see everything in the picture, every emotion, except for one: I couldn’t see any happiness. Life may had gained her experience, but it had also taken away her vivacity as doing so.

The weather seemed to be fine, but if you looked closely, you could see that it was raining, it was raining because the woman wanted so, the woman made you feel the soaking rain without you noticing that the sky clouded over.

There was nothing left that kept her alive, except for her obstinacy, her interminable war against life. Her anger embittered her holding onto life. She was robust, resilient; she was brave. She was powerful. She had used to be vulnerable, but not then. She had become a fighter, an ardent fighter. Life had toughened her. She wasn’t capable of feeling tender emotions anymore, she looked emotionless besides every emotion she reflected.

It wasn’t her fault. She never willed to become this person. But the circumstances that made the things that could have happened impossible, that kept the sun from shining through her window, that gave her her divine looks, that made her start smoking… It was their fault. Life had done this to her. Life that hadn’t been easy on her, life that had done her wrong. Life had failed her so many times that she didn’t believe anymore. I could see no hope in her eyes because she knew that her hope would be disappointed again. Life had made her feel worthless, desperate, abandoned. But the photograph revealed her worth. She wasn’t standing by a desirable car for no reason. The car’s worth seemed to be nothing besides her greatness, divinity. Her delicacy made the viewer come to understand the value of human and woman, criticized mankind’s meaningless worship to money, to lifeless possessions.

Some people would try to sympathize her, but she didn’t need anyone’s sympathy. She had nothing to be felt sorry for. She had survived through the stifle of life. She didn’t need anyone.

She was independent.

I could see no sign of fear. She was anything but afraid. She hadn’t given up. No, not against life. She seemed not to be exasperate, but infuriated; not exhausted, but tired. She was patient; she was soulful. She looked dead, but she was the most alive she had ever been.

She had the deepest looking eyes I had ever seen.

She was standing there in front of a valuable, desirable car, with her bare feet, her uneasy look, and a cigarette in between her fingers.

Her eyes were able to talk.