This is my second installment in the Who is Cassandra? collaboration. Part one is here.
Over the past two weeks my one-bedroom apartment has gone from cramped and slightly messy to something comparable to the place beneath the underpass where the homeless gather. My clothes, dirty and clean alike, have somehow ended up scattered across my floor and furniture, so I’m no longer sure if what I’m wearing is filthy or merely wrinkled. My sink has disappeared under the onslaught of unwashed dishes, and half-eaten boxes of takeaway litter the kitchen and living room. The shower has become a foreign entity, one towards which my oily and tangled hair has become xenophobic. I can’t remember the last time I had a proper night’s sleep.
My haggard appearance isn’t for naught, however. I’ve been doing research. Ever since that day at the train station I haven’t been able to get Cassandra out of my head. When I saw her excitement ran through me for the first time in years, and there’s no way I’m letting that feeling escape me as easily as she did.
I haven’t come up with much since I started digging, but I’ve been able to extract a few useful things from mass of facebook pages and porno sites that turns up when I google “Cassandra.” Apparently I’m not the first to see her. There haven been dozens of accounts all over the country that are nearly identical to mine. Same girl, same smile, same disappearing act. Most importantly though, the word “Cassandra” is always seen after she disappears, whether it’s written in sharpie or spray paint or, in one case, etched into a tree. This girl has been everywhere.
Aside from these encounters, though, not much else turns up. It’s probably a waste of time, but it looks like my best move from here is to try to contact the others who have seen Cassandra. I’m not sure why this obsession has suddenly taken over my life, but I know that I have to find this girl again. Seeing her stirred something in me, made me actually want to change this static life I’ve been leading. Cassandra can help me live again, I know it. For now, though, I’m going to appease my grumbling stomach and order some more Chinese … as soon as I find my phone.
“…go into the arts. I’m not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.”—Kurt Vonnegut (via rollandrise)
“Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them. And yet what a subtle magic there was in them! They seemed to be able to give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere words! Was there anything so real as words?”—Oscar Wilde (via elayney)