Indifference

I’m remembering indifference. It’s almost better than nothing. Than empty space. But it isn’t. It’s a woman sitting on a park bench, legs crossed, arms folded on her lap, staring blankly when an ambulance is screeching behind her and everyone- the guy beside her, the squirrel on the path, the ducks even- is telling her to look, to pay attention. She just sits there and you want to shake her, you want to force her head to turn, press it until it cannot resist any longer. But you don’t.
You can’t blame her. You can’t even bring yourself to look at her objectively anymore. Because she’s just a reflection and no matter how many stones you throw she’ll always creep back into focus, starring into emptiness. Even when she knows there’s something there. She just doesn’t care. I want to paint her. Not because she’s a rarity. Not because the light is just right. But because she’s so honest. She wants oblivion. She knows what’s there but she wants to forget. It’s how we all feel. She’s just got the guts to admit it, to live it. It takes a lot of courage to forget. A lot of hatred and a lot of pain, but a lot of courage to say ‘I’m done, no more. You can never reach me now.'
I want to paint those soft lines of her hair, the little wisps that escape around her pale face. That hardness in her eyes. That stillness in her form when all around her is light, summery movement. She’s an icicle out of place. I’d paint her shadows blue, light her eyes with cyanide. I’d ghost her in like a stranger. Mix the ochre with a hint of dead leaves and dirty grass. Paste on her clothing as if it were stolen from someone else and forced on her so she would form the necessary image. I’d make the sky the brightest blue and shine the sirens in until they blind the viewer while she remains one lump of silhouette, unmoved by her surroundings. I would call it ‘Indifference’ and nothing else would need to be said.