Sultry Wisps of a Time That Was Never Hers
Sequins, sparkles, a bold rouge lip. The sultry wisps of a time that was never hers, embraced by freedom, elegance, culture and expressionism. She could see it before her eyes, black, white and gold, dripping in decadence. However, it seemed more like a dream, allowing the real world to fade away. It was a renaissance of the soul, and in this time of petaling pleasures, she longed to be in a world she could finally be a part of.
What was it? Was it the dancing? The flashing lights? The parties which raged until late hours? Or maybe it was the poetry, the literature, and the gilded promise of something better. She swore she lived through it, that her soul had been there once before. She had played Jazz in a smoky speakeasy and she had heard the melodious prose of Langston Hughes. It was ingrained in her very soul, tugging at the strings of fate, longing for the clock to reverse. She felt the inexplicable urge to walk down the streets of New York City, in her flapper dress down to her crystalline black heels. To feel the wind carry the feeling of brimming industrialism and progress. To feel the innovation and excitement as it burned through her veins. Even within the depth of the great depression looming at the horizon, the lively and exuberant culture could not be slowed down. She dreamed because she was tired of the clubs and the lack of respect, tired of all the problems and all her chains. Tonight was her night, the biggest gala in town, and the theme: the roaring 20’s. Smiling to herself, she sat in front of the ivory vanity, placing her cosmetics on the table and getting lost in the hopes of what tonight could be. She dreamed of the rain, not the dance in the rain sort of rain but rather the downpour rain. The kind which makes it impossible to see, vieling the ugliness of the world and washing away the troubles of yesterday. It would be dark, a velvet night, the world filled in hopes of seeing the moonlight once the clouds should break. Maybe, deep within the party hall, the pitter patter of the rain would merely be a faint reminder that there was a world which existed outside of the confines of the idyllic scene. Would there be wind? Carrying the promises of tomorrow with the faint remembrance of the past. It would embrace her with its cool kisses and within a moment it would blow away and forget about that which it touched. Maybe the wind would sing, quietly as it moved and with the melody she would swing, tracing the dance floor, lost in the sea of poeple without a care. To be amongst the dreamers who never left the clouds or the innovation who paved the way for the future, and best of all, the writers, poets and the artist, who strive to express things which no one else could articulate. She could almost taste the hazy, crystal, gold drinks and their bubbles bouncing in her mouth. Like Alice in wonderland and that would be her potion, transporting her to a time beyond her own. Oh, how she longed for a time like that, to live in a simpler time yet a time of change and revolution. For she felt as if she could not fit in anywhere, whether it be with those of her own age or in the stories she claimed as her own. She lived in the aftermath of the time and watched the world become littered with those who thought they were eternal. She had an old soul and her story was etched in black and white, a timeless piece which allowed the facade she put up for the world to fade. Maybe she found that even in a time filled with extravagance, she understood that everyone feigned happiness to some extent, and that’s what made her feel like she belonged in the imperfect, yet picturesque era, that even with the happiness, there was something somber but that would be okay.
Finally, she placed the gold trimmed and crystal embedded jewelry box in front of her. Running her fingers over the smooth, textured white wood, she picked up the box and winded the delicate, gold knob at the bottom. Slowly, sound ascending, soft music began to echo from the box. It played a tune with an airy piano and a faint lingering of a violin. It seemed to set the scene as she reached into the box, her fingers brushing over the soft, red velvet interior. When she looked into the velveteen box, the memories unfurled around her, reminding her of a lost time. A young girl who waltzed into parties and lit up the room with her glistening smile. To say she was the life of the party was an understatement, she was the heart and soul of the party. Looking away from the trace of the red cloth she only hoped she could dazzle the party as brilliantly as her grandmother had. Her ruby lips parted into a smile as she pulled out the staggering and utterly breathtaking set of gleaming, moon white pearls. She held them carefully in the air, a set of earrings and a necklace, worn in the very time she so wished to belong to. It was a piece of authenticity, the only one that truly deserved a place in an event so true to the past. Once she looked in the mirror, sure of her reflection, she opened the drawer of the vanity and pulled out an old book.
She picked up the novel, and when her hands, black nails and delicate fingers, danced through the pages she found herself at peace. There was nothing more refreshing yet agonizing than reading it, and as F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote, “I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.” and that she was.