Meditations from Suzon
Emilia, age 17
Spoken word
The woman stares emotionless at the man. He rambles on about tedious topics, something involving her and something about a drink. Whilst his words drift past her, not quite catching her attention, her mind wanders into the great unknown. In a mere few seconds her mind has already designed new inventions, just like John Milne and his seismograph or the telephone by Alexander Graham Bell; whilst the man cannot decide what beverage he would like. She does not want to be here; yet she is. She has so many things she desires to achieve; yet she must stay. She feels caught in the grasp of a life set for monotony, a life with few choices because she is a woman, a life she cannot bear to think about for one second more.
Out of her reach, she can sense the hustle and bustle of those lucky enough to be outside under the inky sky littered with stars, those who are able to escape the continual need for a job they do not want. Those who have a constant array of new opportunities thrown at them but bat them away in search of a job in accounting; specifically men. She can hear the chime of hooves of horses hitting the surface of the uneven cobbles followed by the rattle of a carriage. The radically evolving Paris is orbiting around her, glowing with change from leisure, such as night clubs and shopping arcades, to new constructions, instructed by Napoleon III. The Folies-Bergère is part of this. Part of the attempt to capture the frantically flourishing population in a sense of awe, freshly furnished with the newly invented electric lights, a trapeze artist and enough alcohol to last anybody a whole month. But she is not captured. The reviews which rave about the new form of leisure she fell captive to had tricked her once more into a job she despises.
The man makes a noise, as if to clasp her attention and drag her up from the depths of the sea of boredom once more and away from her yearning for escape. She feels her hand weighted down by something solid and feels it snatched up by the man. Trepidation runs through her veins, twisting itself around them like a tangling vine trying to gain support. She looks frantically around her. The mirror shines at her and she takes notice of it; she sees the swell of people forming a dizzying mess, she sees the man still gripping onto her hand, she sees the consumer products surrounding her. Yet in the midst of this, she sees herself. The honey-coloured hair, the hazel eyes, the dark gowns adorned with lace. She sees the resemblance of herself to the champagne bottles, the flowers placed neatly on the counter similar to the flowers she wears. She is no longer a woman with hobbies, interests and passions. Society has labelled her as nothing but a consumer product, an object.