Buttons
Blue, green, small, smooth, large, pressed often or not enough are the buttons she talked about. I loved the buttons and embroidery she created on my dresses and his. My earliest memory is of her on a sewing machine. The seeds of separation were there in that picture and so was a recognition of eternity, omnipresence. There would be nothing, no space, no place, no time, nothing at all, without me. And yet there were seeds of a judging, driving to be just a personality in there. There were seeds of others and strong censure of others when they favored a prettier, plastic doll over a darker, cloth one, the seeds of discrimination sown by none other than me in the fertile soil of the play of separation. I claim the ownership because no words were exchanged and I was the only one thinking all those nasty things to myself. But she knows me so, so well, she knows all my buttons, better than me, the witch. I make a belated attempt to turn the tide by trying to push hers. But don’t succeed. The more I act as if the same universe is moving in her as in me the more I act like her, teachering by imitation, was her favorite tool. I used it inadvertently on her, left a warm, good but agitated feeling in my body. Phew!
I love her, it is nice to sit next to her, but not as peaceful as sitting next to my friends, the angels. Why the difference? I am absolutely not sure. I think she has a little bit of a vengeful spirit and a much stronger personality than me. I am too giving, a bit indulgent, prone to follow, her and others. I don’t stand up for my principles as she does. I admire her for her strength. But of late I have started to question such strength which manipulates to impose it’s will, subtly, with innuendos and expressions of displeasure, it begins innocently enough, but has the potential to destroy or at least undermine friendships. I have a sense that her knowledge of my buttons is deeper than mine. Perhaps because her social experience has been more fraught than mine, after all she had seven siblings and I had only one.
This situation seems beyond me, her trying to impose her will on me and me slipping out of it. It is new to me. Most of my life, I have given in to it. Prior to this, distance had helped give me a sense of freedom. I keep remembering the times she had successfully turned me around to her will. She seems to have an insatiable need to be right.
Am I describing her or me or every person alive?
