So I basically wrote this straight through, and it hasn't been edited. If it makes absolutely no sense, then that's probably why. Enjoy :)
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Saturday, September 1, 2012
Do tell me if this story makes sense to you.
I have no title. Honestly, I have no idea where this came from. Do let me know if it makes some kind of sense to you. :)
***
Every night, he is young and fresh and whole. His mind is teeming with ideas, his pen flying across the parchment scroll on the desk. Once upon a time...
Every night he writes story upon story, until it seems that he must have written every story that ever was or ever will be. Yet his pen flies across the parchment unceasingly--it is always parchment, he does not know why it is always parchment that he uses--and from the depths of his being come new stories. There are princesses and dragons, there are first loves and first dates, there are gangsters and scientists and superheroes. Every story is different.
His steel tower is cold, almost sterile in the darkness. A lamp sits on his desk, and the moon shines bright and cold through the window facing the east. He pauses his writing for a moment to admire the window. It is really a lovely window, he muses to himself; it is made of cut glass and prisms, and shadowy rainbows dance across the floor of his steel tower. Prisms hang from the ceiling as well, and rainbows decorate the walls when the moon is not covered by clouds. He decided that his next story will have rainbows in it somewhere, and his pen dances across the page. The ink is thick and black, and it never smears. He wonders why it never smears.
He writes until the darkest hour--the moments just before dawn, when the moon is fading and the sun has yet to rise. The prisms hanging from the ceiling no longer cast their ghostly rainbows, the lamp at his desk dims of its own accord. His pen slows and the words cease to dance across the parchment--it is always parchment, why is it always old-fashioned parchment when everything else is shining and new--and the moon fades away as the sun slowly rises.
In that moment he remembers why it is that his pen has stilled, and the ornate window of prisms on the east wall is suddenly blindingly bright. It is like looking straight into the sun, only he cannot tear his gaze away from the terrible beauty as the window shines with the brilliance of a hundred thousand stars. The parchment at his left hand is warm, warm, warm, and all of a sudden it is bursting into flames because everything is too bright for it to bear.
And he is on fire too, he realizes, and he remembers again that every morning when the sun rises he must die again, and his stories must die with him, because somewhere, they have already been told. He is the keeper of dreams, and so he must rise to write again, for without him, there would be no stories. For now, though, he must burn as he and his stories are consumed by the flames. He knows that will rise from the ashes again like a phoenix at dusk, young and fresh and whole, his mind teeming with ideas. Every night, he knows, he writes every story that ever was.
***
Every night, he is young and fresh and whole. His mind is teeming with ideas, his pen flying across the parchment scroll on the desk. Once upon a time...
Every night he writes story upon story, until it seems that he must have written every story that ever was or ever will be. Yet his pen flies across the parchment unceasingly--it is always parchment, he does not know why it is always parchment that he uses--and from the depths of his being come new stories. There are princesses and dragons, there are first loves and first dates, there are gangsters and scientists and superheroes. Every story is different.
His steel tower is cold, almost sterile in the darkness. A lamp sits on his desk, and the moon shines bright and cold through the window facing the east. He pauses his writing for a moment to admire the window. It is really a lovely window, he muses to himself; it is made of cut glass and prisms, and shadowy rainbows dance across the floor of his steel tower. Prisms hang from the ceiling as well, and rainbows decorate the walls when the moon is not covered by clouds. He decided that his next story will have rainbows in it somewhere, and his pen dances across the page. The ink is thick and black, and it never smears. He wonders why it never smears.
He writes until the darkest hour--the moments just before dawn, when the moon is fading and the sun has yet to rise. The prisms hanging from the ceiling no longer cast their ghostly rainbows, the lamp at his desk dims of its own accord. His pen slows and the words cease to dance across the parchment--it is always parchment, why is it always old-fashioned parchment when everything else is shining and new--and the moon fades away as the sun slowly rises.
In that moment he remembers why it is that his pen has stilled, and the ornate window of prisms on the east wall is suddenly blindingly bright. It is like looking straight into the sun, only he cannot tear his gaze away from the terrible beauty as the window shines with the brilliance of a hundred thousand stars. The parchment at his left hand is warm, warm, warm, and all of a sudden it is bursting into flames because everything is too bright for it to bear.
And he is on fire too, he realizes, and he remembers again that every morning when the sun rises he must die again, and his stories must die with him, because somewhere, they have already been told. He is the keeper of dreams, and so he must rise to write again, for without him, there would be no stories. For now, though, he must burn as he and his stories are consumed by the flames. He knows that will rise from the ashes again like a phoenix at dusk, young and fresh and whole, his mind teeming with ideas. Every night, he knows, he writes every story that ever was.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
Matcha
Matcha is a type of green tea; it's somewhat bitter once brewed.
******
You're supposed to eat something sweet before you drink matcha, so that the sweetness can fill your mouth before it is washed away by the bitterness of the tea. Not everyone does it this way, though. My grandmother likes the candy and the matcha together, so that the tea is always just a little sweet. I prefer the subtle bitterness of the tea by itself. After a while, though, when there is just a bit of tea left in my cup, I have something sweet anyways. Before the last sip of matcha, I wait as a tiny Japanese candy melts in my mouth, filling it with sweetness. For this last sip, I will drink tea as my grandmother does. Though we are separated by seventy years, a world war, and a lifetime of hardships, this one thing we can share.
My last sip of tea is bittersweet.
******
You're supposed to eat something sweet before you drink matcha, so that the sweetness can fill your mouth before it is washed away by the bitterness of the tea. Not everyone does it this way, though. My grandmother likes the candy and the matcha together, so that the tea is always just a little sweet. I prefer the subtle bitterness of the tea by itself. After a while, though, when there is just a bit of tea left in my cup, I have something sweet anyways. Before the last sip of matcha, I wait as a tiny Japanese candy melts in my mouth, filling it with sweetness. For this last sip, I will drink tea as my grandmother does. Though we are separated by seventy years, a world war, and a lifetime of hardships, this one thing we can share.
My last sip of tea is bittersweet.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Beauty.
An interpretation of the fairy tale.
***
You've been told that better times are ahead ever since your father lost everything.
You bury yourself in books and work, to try to dull the memories of the life that you had once had. Books let you escape into a better place; work keeps you so tired that you cannot possibly find the energy to weep over what once was.
You wish that your sisters would realize that better times are not really ahead. You wish that they'd pull their heads out of the past and help you milk the cow and scrub the floors and cook the meals. That's all you want right now--a little help.
Your father hears that one of his ships is coming to harbor. He is excited; your sisters are excited; even you are excited. Perhaps there is a chance that you will be able to return to your old life. Your father asks you if there is anything, anything at all, that you want. And you wish for a single rose, because you don't want to cause him too much trouble.
He is gone for several days--but when he comes back, he is a changed man, looking as if his very soul has been stolen from him. He is a dead man, he tells you all, for he picked a single rose from the garden of the Beast. He must pay for the delicate flower he placed into your hands with his life.
You don't believe it--yet at the same time, you know that this outrageously heartbreaking, terrifyingly confusing story must be true, because your father would never lie to you. And so, because you will not let him pay such a price for your rose, you go with him to the Beast's castle. You prepare yourself to die as you bid your father farewell. You prepare yourself to die.
And in that moment, you are no longer little Beauty, your father's favorite daughter, and you know that your father cannot always keep you safe and make sure that everything works out all right.
You've grown up, and you're on your own, though perhaps the both of you still wish that you were little Beauty, whose father who could always keep her safe.
Now, though, there is no one left to save you. You're blind and deaf and alone, because in this castle, you know absolutely nothing.
You don't know that you will not die tonight, or tomorrow night, or the night after that. You don't know that you will find true love and your happily-ever-after.
You don't know any of this yet.
And right now, though you wish you could be brave, you're simply terrified.
There is nothing more frightening than the unknown. And right now... you don't know anything.
***
You've been told that better times are ahead ever since your father lost everything.
You bury yourself in books and work, to try to dull the memories of the life that you had once had. Books let you escape into a better place; work keeps you so tired that you cannot possibly find the energy to weep over what once was.
You wish that your sisters would realize that better times are not really ahead. You wish that they'd pull their heads out of the past and help you milk the cow and scrub the floors and cook the meals. That's all you want right now--a little help.
Your father hears that one of his ships is coming to harbor. He is excited; your sisters are excited; even you are excited. Perhaps there is a chance that you will be able to return to your old life. Your father asks you if there is anything, anything at all, that you want. And you wish for a single rose, because you don't want to cause him too much trouble.
He is gone for several days--but when he comes back, he is a changed man, looking as if his very soul has been stolen from him. He is a dead man, he tells you all, for he picked a single rose from the garden of the Beast. He must pay for the delicate flower he placed into your hands with his life.
You don't believe it--yet at the same time, you know that this outrageously heartbreaking, terrifyingly confusing story must be true, because your father would never lie to you. And so, because you will not let him pay such a price for your rose, you go with him to the Beast's castle. You prepare yourself to die as you bid your father farewell. You prepare yourself to die.
And in that moment, you are no longer little Beauty, your father's favorite daughter, and you know that your father cannot always keep you safe and make sure that everything works out all right.
You've grown up, and you're on your own, though perhaps the both of you still wish that you were little Beauty, whose father who could always keep her safe.
Now, though, there is no one left to save you. You're blind and deaf and alone, because in this castle, you know absolutely nothing.
You don't know that you will not die tonight, or tomorrow night, or the night after that. You don't know that you will find true love and your happily-ever-after.
You don't know any of this yet.
And right now, though you wish you could be brave, you're simply terrified.
There is nothing more frightening than the unknown. And right now... you don't know anything.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
If you never ever.
Never find a passion, because then nothing can ever be taken from you. Never fall in love, lest your heart be stolen from your grasp. Never give yourself to a cause, no matter how fully you agree with it, so that you can remain sole master of your time.
Never aim for anything big and bright and beautiful, because you may fall short and realize that you are not as talented as you once thought. Never dream big, because crushed dreams crush hearts.
And above all, never ever take risks, because you never know what will happen when you take a chance. Oh, no. Play it safe, and stay inside your circle of control. Don't ever dream big or fall in love or find a passion, because then nothing can ever hurt you. So life is a little colorless--at least you will never know the pain of a broken heart, or of a dream dashed to the ground.
After all, only dreamers know broken hearts. And only dreams lifted to the sky can be crushed.
But of course, only the dreams lifted towards the sky can ever touch the clouds.
Never aim for anything big and bright and beautiful, because you may fall short and realize that you are not as talented as you once thought. Never dream big, because crushed dreams crush hearts.
And above all, never ever take risks, because you never know what will happen when you take a chance. Oh, no. Play it safe, and stay inside your circle of control. Don't ever dream big or fall in love or find a passion, because then nothing can ever hurt you. So life is a little colorless--at least you will never know the pain of a broken heart, or of a dream dashed to the ground.
After all, only dreamers know broken hearts. And only dreams lifted to the sky can be crushed.
But of course, only the dreams lifted towards the sky can ever touch the clouds.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Broken.
The cloudy sky cast odd hues of light everywhere. Here a bit of orange, there a bit of red, a bit of blue over that-a-ways. But mostly, it was dark. Silvery wisps of fog swirled across the stone-paved streets, making them slick and shiny under the street lamps lining the wooden sidewalks.
But no passersby stopped to admire the smoothly polished cobblestones or the many-colored hues of the sky. Instead, with their gaze planted firmly on the plank sidewalks beneath their feet, each person hurried by, oblivious to the simple beauty surrounding them.
Tall concrete buildings rose to nudge the very lowest limits of the sky, it seemed, housing hundreds of people each. A half a mile or so farther, the tall concrete buildings were replaced by long, squat asphalt buildings, smokestacks rising from each. Brown-grey smoke rose in puffs day and night, filling the sky with the ugly byproducts of the factories.
A few stray droplets of rain plopped softly onto the ground, followed by a few more. And a few more, and a few more, until it seemed that the sky itself wept at the ruin that the land had become.
But no passersby stopped to admire the smoothly polished cobblestones or the many-colored hues of the sky. Instead, with their gaze planted firmly on the plank sidewalks beneath their feet, each person hurried by, oblivious to the simple beauty surrounding them.
Tall concrete buildings rose to nudge the very lowest limits of the sky, it seemed, housing hundreds of people each. A half a mile or so farther, the tall concrete buildings were replaced by long, squat asphalt buildings, smokestacks rising from each. Brown-grey smoke rose in puffs day and night, filling the sky with the ugly byproducts of the factories.
A few stray droplets of rain plopped softly onto the ground, followed by a few more. And a few more, and a few more, until it seemed that the sky itself wept at the ruin that the land had become.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Without regrets.
Sometimes, I dream. I dream that life is perfect and sweet and simple. I dream that my life isn't strange and convoluted and twisted. Because honestly, it's not. I know that my life isn't half bad. But of course there are things that I would change, if I had the chance. Friendships that I've messed up. Words better left unspoken. Time wasted and abused.
There is no way to live completely without regrets.
But I certainly wish that I could.
There is no way to live completely without regrets.
But I certainly wish that I could.
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