Alexandra

  Alexandra wasn’t having what one would call a melancholy night. No, it surely wasn’t melancholy in a sense that she wasn’t enjoying herself. Why, the entire trek to the cinema she belted out Janis Joplin songs as they came on the rock-and-roll station (was it her birthday? It must have been her birthday. Or the anniversary of her death) and stared dreamily at the 101 freeway ahead of her, as if this land truly were her land and all of the quintessential Los Angeles glitter was temporarily flaking onto her old broken-down blue Chevy barely tugging along at 60 miles an hour. It was amazing to her how a movie could be so elating to her mood; it was as if the character’s story, no matter how happy or tragic or truthful, somehow intertwined with hers in a way where it all made a little more sense. Alexandra, on this night, made a little more sense. 

  Some people might say Alexandra was a mere integrant, a minuscule part of society. One might call her unassertive or meek, too careful with her words or too difficult to figure out. A hardcopy of brilliant literature was undoubtably her best friend, but those who knew her, really knew her, knew that she was simply hard to figure out. She made a constant mistake of giving in to this notion and used it as a deflect from the world. She never really wanted people to know who she was. She didn’t even like herself that much. Everything was a memoir and she wasn’t even satisfied with the story she had to tell. Truth be told...she didn’t really ever do anything of value.