If my life were a movie it would open with a slow tracking shot of my hand running along the top of a wall, the metal of my rings glinting in moonlight. And there would be a voice-over to portray the narration in my head, talking in soft tones about the stars and the night. Then there I would be, looking out over the top of that same wall and the distant mountains would be wrapped in fog, and the traffic lights below would reflect off the rain-soaked pavement in little ragged lines. And the voice-over would say, If only the lights weren’t so bright; I could see past them.
If my life were a movie, moments of great stress would be portrayed by shots of me in a noisy elevator. No narration—just me, leaning back against the wall, closing my eyes while I caught my breath and the sounds of my panting echoed around the hollow box as it scraped upward and the fluorescent light flickered. And one floor would take an eternity as the noises gradually grew louder and louder until at last the doors opened to utter silence. And then I would collect myself, and exit without looking back, and the elevator would close behind me.
The soundtrack of my life would vary—moments of calm would include a lot of slow, soft songs formed by violin strings and piano keys; they would take place almost any time the setting had a window to look out of. Moments of excitement would be dominated by drums and guitar solos, and in the scene I would most likely be running somewhere. Anywhere. Perhaps a place unknown to the audience until I got there and the music slowed once again.
The song might come from a band in a bar, accompanied by shots of toasts being made, or hands grabbing for garlic fries and crowded figures out on a dance floor with the lights very low. It might come from the radio during a long drive home, or the CD player on days when the elevator ride seemed longest, or from an iPod while I made noodles in the kitchen, dancing around on the tile floor in my socks and sweatpants as my roommate looked on with confusion.
And if my life were a movie, joy would be expressed with a compilation of all these things. The dancing and the running and the elevator noises and me shouting at my computer and stabbing my pencil through True/False questions and the music and the moonlight and my hand running along the rough stone would flash by in split-second shots until the movie ended with the sunset right outside my window and the peace of one final, silent moment.
And then fade to black.
— C.Q.
