Trinity Point [57/100]

Tristan scribbled lies, truths and uncertainties onto the tattered slips of parchment that held loosely to the binding of the notebook. He muttered any and all words that emerged from the depths of his work. Patience is but a moniker for insanity, especially when there's writing involved. Tristan called this the "Inception Process", a name he had coined for the part of writing that involves the most juggling and puzzle-making; the part of actually getting it done. Everyone knows that everyone else has a different way of accomplishing insurmountable tasks but really there are only two ways - you either get it done or you don't. It's an ultimatum that presses its blade against Tristan's temple. A bead of sweat drops. Too much too prove. Tristan can't finish it and now everyone will only see a failure at life. He shivers. 

Should he have pursued accounting like his father had told him to? 

Tara painted illusions, dreams and plausibilities onto the white-washed canvas that hung dearly onto a second-hand easel, dirty at every corner. She dipped her paintbrush into the chaotic paints, coalesced colors mixed a little too far, and dragged them across the stagnant wasteland of her work. Tara called this "Abstract conceptualization", but it was just a term she used to mask the fact that she had hit a wall made of abusive judgments and critical analyzations. Everyone knows that at some point in a career, there will always be the lowest of lows, but what everyone doesn't know is that getting started, getting recognized, is what hurts the most. Paintbrush presses too hard onto the canvas. It rips. A tear droplet forms at the corner of an eye. Tara collapses. Color runs from the troubled hands that cover her eyes. She trembles. 

Should she have become a lawyer like her older sister?

Taylor typed logic, numbers and evidence onto a steel computer produced by a company striving to monopolize their consumer's life. She listens to the sound of silence, in an office, dark after hours; overtime is her career. Coffee cold on her desk, she'd forgotten about it as her fingers slave away, creating documents that aren't truly hers. She misses the feel of the dance floor and the freedom of her bare feet. On the fifty-fifth floor, she can see the world from behind glass panels but her eyes are glued to flickering screens. Taylor knows she won't get any sleep tonight, she knows she has to complete the document by tomorrow or risk getting cut; there was always that risk. Always. Her colleagues call this "The Crunch" but Taylor would rather call it "Death". This job, this money she earns, it feels hollow, not like the dreams she once swallowed to join the path of conformity. Teeth bite too hard on her lips. Stressed. Blood draws. Taylor curses. She slams her hand on the table. Paper flies off her desk in rage. 

Should she have stood by her dreams in the face of endless pressure?

The morning rises and the night retreats into the darkest corners. Tristan moves solemnly past strangers, his eyes never meeting theirs, he's afraid. He doesn't know where to go. He's just walking towards the end of the world. Lost and alone; his notebook lies torn and broken at home. With paint still coating her fingernails, Tara grips her portfolio with a reluctance that furrows her brow in annoyance. She can't stand interviews. She can't stand the shadow she stands in. The train speeds to a stop and opens its gaping doors. Taylor trudges out from the chain coffee store, green and brown, holding her coffee, black as her mood. She doesn't take milk anymore. The sweetness gives her too much hope. The wind pulls her hair into a flurry. High heels beat against the grey concrete. She's always got to be somewhere, always moving but never truly dancing. 

At Grand Central Station, Tristan stands in the middle of the jostling crowd and looks up at the ceiling, admiring the designs that were born from dreams. Tara brushes against the shoulders of others as the doors of the train open once more and spews forth the droning crowd of humanity's patient workers. Footsteps on the stairs and Tara's concentration is stuck on the floor, trying to comprehend reality; today she must not slip. The past must be behind her. Taylor sips on her coffee, it burns her tongue, she curses; no one notices, and her feet drag through the forever open doors of the station. Another day, another beat through life. 

Tristan takes a step back and destiny smiles.

Tara bumps into the back of a man; Tristan's; and she stumbles, dropping her portfolio onto the floor, spilling hope everywhere.

Taylor, never awake, steps onto the black folders and at once feels the need to pick them up. Gazing at the paintings, Taylor remembers the touch of dreams, of a hope she had let go.

Tara apologizes, frantic, wondering why everything is going wrong. 

Tristan stares at the women behind him, color against monotony, and he realizes the dichotomy between their forms, the myriad variations of their lives.
The very people he feared becomes his undying inspiration.

Taylor hands the portfolios back with a bleak stare coupled with a slight smile; jubilation builds. Today she will say no for the first time at a meeting and change her life.

Tara nods with a thankful silence at the realization of the stressed reflection of her sister in the woman ahead of her. Perhaps she was wrong to say that her sister had it all; perhaps she should stop running away from the fact that she's afraid of her own success. That she wouldn't be good enough. 

The three never knew each other and they might never meet again but at that point in time and space, strangers changed the fate of others.