He held the leather bound book. The sun glistened off the front, detailing its worn cover. He hated this book. It had served him well. Detailing all of his adventures. It would kill him to lose it. It would destroy and tear his soul apart if one day it fell into the wrong hands. The hands of a lover, the hands of an enemy or even worse, and his own soul mended hands. A tear escaped from his eyes. It rolled right down on the front title. “My Adventure.” That’s what he called his life, his work, his designs. His adventures, his escape from reality, his afternoon in a world where nothing mattered but his own personal creations. He flipped the book open, the edge of the pages were yellow from the coffee that was spilled on them. He used and abused this book. He couldn’t take it anymore. This tool was old. It was worn out. It held his soul. He bent forwards, smelling the old pigments of paper. It felt eerily real. The words, how they were written, how the pen dug deeper into the paper by the weight of the word. He slid his hand on the opposite side of the book. He took a deep breath and pulled, gripping as hard as he could. He went on a rampage, his breath quickened, he only saw darkness, while pages were being torn. All that was left was the title, “My Adventure”. He cried.
Is it possible, that my soul expects the inevitable disappointment of life? Living so fully, extending my arms to any bits of information that may enrich me has ended up decaying the space between my ribs. I question the very existence of my being, dive head first into the abyss of understanding, when do I not have time to experience? The bitter resentment and cadence of life has swung into full motion. My hair has not even turned grey and I look into the past. I understand that decisions must be made, I understand that the present matters, but I feel like I keep on hitting rewind on that favorite record. I keep on forgetting to tie my shoe laces. I know where the loop ends. I’m sure I know where love comes from. Love is not Hollywood. I managed to overcome stereotypes and fallacies every day, a great boyish smirk follows. But what now, after all is said and done, that I’ve found my Mecca, my Wall. The moments leading up to the self-discovery of my path, does it not make me shed a tear? I know full well that the logical path that previous elders have talked about is upon me. But, I am an elder, yet my hair is black. I can jump, I’m not in a wheel chair. Why was I cursed by being literate? Why did you make me love life so much that I have to live the rest in a circuit? Instill ignorance into me, it’s not too late. Tell me the speech that every man has to hear. Make sure that women don’t hear it. Abstraction doesn’t exist. It’s all in front of us, live with the beast. The beast machine we call our minds. I can’t recall what made me think this but thus far, I agree with myself. I have learned to love myself and others, why won’t my bones rot all ready? Make me live up until that fleeting moment, when the sun barely broke through the purple waters. When that wind froze my neck up on that mountain I conquered. Keep me in a different type of machine, where I can smile and glorify other creations that have nothing to do with me.
Wait. she said.
He stopped. The weight of her words anchoring him in place.
Promise me. she added.
His breath was cut off. His heart sunk into his stomach. His soul was ruptured, it pained his whole body.
I can’t. he said.
She fell to her knees, tears pouring down her face. History was repeating itself. Adam and Eve’s expulsion from paradise. Cleopatra’s and Anthony’s love. Even Paris and Helen suffered such pains and grief.
Love cannot live without a host. It must be nurtured, it must receive attention. You can’t leave me. she gasped through her tears.
He strapped on his sword. He holstered his gun. He grabbed his suitcase.
She smiled. She bid him farewell, he was never the same.
The experience is much more interesting with music.
Add a little rain 🙂 http://www.rainymood.com/
Let the universe unfold, your choices have already sprouted in other worlds a million times over. Settle for inaction, it is the glory of not intervening that renders happiness.
I sat on a plain white chair. The day was gray. Those words were written on a dank piece of paper. It was signed. I was puzzled, transfixed on every word. I was trying to analyze the meaning, but it was useless. My friend smiled from across the room.
“That’s my dad’s suicide letter.” he said with a boyish grin. I stared blankly at him. My head twisting to the side, as if to say “why-did-you-just-tell-me-that?”. His dad kills himself and he leaves his son a letter that advocates being lazy and absent?
“The second I read those two sentences, I understood.” The grin was wiped clearly off. The sun’s rays seeped into the room. The sky was a mixture of purple and pink hues. Combined with my friend’s blue eyes, it seemed he was projecting his soul onto me.
“You see, they are a million decisions that led up to this moment. The universe decided for me to be in a world where my father is dead.” He emphasized every single word. He did not let me object.
“And so, I know there is a place where my father is still alive. A million of other places. ” The sun was getting stronger. His father’s wooden carvings casted shadows over the desk. The letter succumbed to shade.
“So I will do nothing in this life. I will not take any decisions that will benefit or hurt anyone.” He smiled. He truly believed what he was saying. I looked at the door. I nodded to the nurse.
She opened the door for me. I let go of the paper and bid my friend farewell. The door closed behind me, clicks signaled the complexity of the locking mechanism used.
“Maybe, he isn’t so fucked up.” I whispered under my breath. His father died, but elsewhere he was alive. In this universe, he is a son of a dead father. In another, his father embraces him. He choses to live in a world where he could not make any choices, rather, he wished to experience them out of pure odds.
Don’t pray when it rains if you don’t pray when the sun shines.
The boy rolled up his prayer rug. He lightly placed it through his arm pit. His ribs were stabbing out. He was starving. Sand slowly slithered through the cracks in the wall. He took a step forward, glass screeched as he made his way to his ash covered bed. He sat down on the metal skeleton of the bed. His frail hands and legs were no larger than the remains he sat on top A huge explosion erupted in the distance, the ash withered in the room. Sand crumbled from the roof. His brother’s body turned over to face him. He unrolled his rug and got to his knees, small shards of glass crushing his bones. Another explosion ruptured, he fell forwards. He shielded his eyes, he wasn’t sure if this was all real anymore. The world was never able to stay perfectly in focus. His brother’s body was slouched the opposite direction.
He smiled and whispered another prayer.
Imagine not being able to sleep. Your body relentlessly attempts to force you to shut your eyes. But what if you don’t want to sleep, in fear of not being able to dream. Where would guidance come from? You sank so low that being stuck between dreaming and reality is a sense of accomplishment. The teacher suffered from such a disease. Wandering the silent hallways of his home, stopping at the kitchen to stare blankly at the fridge. Maybe something had magically appeared inside since the last time he checked it. He stared blankly, his eyes felt heavy. Black and blue hues encircled his eye socket, he could no longer focus clearly. His body was degrading, once a marathon runner, he now could barely walk up the stairs without feeling breathless.
He didn’t know what was happening to him, it was a mix of depression and the consequence when one abuses living. Even his sibling’s deaths had not pushed him to such a state. At least they were dead, he was wandering through life without living. Shackled to a prison with no walls and no cells.
Waking up in the afternoon, sitting down on the same old white desk as the unwavering black eyes of his students gazed at him. How could he offer advice? How could he be a beacon of hope for potential people.
Arriving back home, not paying attention to his own children, his wife was lightly pushed aside as she came to hug him. He was walking to his room but it seemed more of a crawl. His hands flailed in front of him, he couldn’t take it anymore. He wanted to lie on his bed and be certain of one thing. That he was in fact lying down.
He was well educated, knew a little too much. Information caused him to analyze everything. He shut his eyes, existence rushed through it. Matter rushed through it. Every single piece of information that he had ever set his eyes on materialized in his brain. How does God do this?
I haven’t created or, shall I say, transferred stories in over five years. I recently felt the need to write about the status quo and how abrupt change is dealt with.
The boys had met up, right before their graduation through the Academy – they met in the bathrooms. Jay had told Robin he had something important to tell him.
They had found out – they had seen them at the statue. There was no escape – Jay and Robin looked into each other’s desperate eyes. Stones were flung. The forest fell silent.