Mathilde
Mathilde is my name. M-A-T-H-I-L-D-E. 8 letters, 5 consonants, 3 vowels. That is all I’m made of, that
is all what I was made for – to spell out my name and dive into it, a hundred times a day, because
nothing beyond it makes sense inside these walls. I live in a cave, the cave is my home. Cavewoman
is what they call me; I embrace the word now.
Although time has got no relevance here, I sleep, eat, and weep at the same hours, every day.
Like a lunatic, trying to make sense of the senseless. Pushed inside these walls I was, part by force,
part by choice. To escape these walls now, is a conundrum I find hard to indulge myself in. A mighty,
mighty conundrum. So, I sit, and I stare. I stand, and I stare. I eat, and I stare. I weep, and I stare –
the grey stones my home consists of.
The agony inside of me makes no sense here, the squeals and wails I attempt to make, to ease out
the agony – return to me, the sender, a thousand times mightier in amplitude. It doesn’t matter,
nothing matters anymore. It did, once upon a time, when I was out in the fields, sun on my face,
wind in my hair – but, part by force, and part by choice, I live here now. The escape is a conundrum I
cannot seem to indulge myself in. Mathilde is my name, I am Mathilde. I chant it, because it’s the
only thing the walls failed (terribly) to take away from me. Perhaps, there is more left in me, than
what I can imagine.
I was deep into my slumber, I am sure of it – what woke me up, startled me from the dreams, my
only refuge? Rage fills me up, but before I can utter a single syllable out from these parched lips, the
grey stones start crumbling and falling down, like the droplets from a wet cloth wrung too hard.
They fall down, and keep falling down, till my head, for the first time in a long time, is covered by the
sky. The actual, mighty sky. Not the carvings of clouds and birds I made on the grey stones, to mimic
the sky – no, the real, mighty, an astonishingly beautiful blanket of white and blue, so intricate, so
delicate, that I fall down on the ground at its first glance. The beauty struck me like nothing struck
me before.
The grey stones sleep around me – once herculean figures, reduced to mere dust at my feet today.
I’m not fully aware of what broke the cave down, the sight of the sky hints at a thunderstorm, but no
calamity has been strong enough to break down the walls, that is, before today. I don’t even know
what day it is, but I am Mathilde. Mathilde is my name. I’m made up of 8 letters, 5 consonants, 3
vowels. I was put in there, part by force, part by choice – but the nature solved the conundrum for
me – escaped I have.
I’m tearing up, my eyes can’t seem to stay dry for more than a second, no matter how many times I
wipe them off. I gulp down the air voraciously, I let the sun sit on my arms, my face, my legs, my
weak, but resilient, body that managed to escape out of the falling stones with mere cuts and
scratches. Nothing, nothing compared to what I faced inside those grey stones. Miracle, is what it is.
I live here now, this is my home. The bright light wakes me up every morning, and the starry blanket
covers me up at night, and just when I’m parched, the rain falls down as a gift from the white clouds.
Life, for the first time in a long time, makes me weep from joy, and not from agony. The crumbled
pieces of my old home haven’t forgotten me, though. They call out my name, 764 times a day,
Mathilde, Mathilde, Mathilde. The absurd thing is, although their screams land upon my ears, my
thoughts are making love with the life I’m going to create, so delicately, so lovingly, so proudly.
I’d be lying if I say that the cries don’t get to me, at times. They do, ferociously, astonishingly,
worriedly, they do catch my attention – and I find myself spiralling down, and in my head I start
putting each stone back to its original grey lover, building up the place that broke me down. What’s
familiar calls out to you, and it will – for the rest of your life. Comfort lies in familiarity, it lies in the
familiar touch, the familiar smell, the familiar agony, the familiar tears – but the life out there, across
the mountains, the rivers, the clouds, the fields, they call out for me – and I must run. For, Mathilde
is my name, I am Mathilde – 8 letters, 5 consonants, 3 vowels. The life calls out for me, and I call out
for my life, and together we run away, chanting just one name, all that there is, all that there was –
Mathilde, Mathilde, Mathilde.