The train is packed with snoozing people, teens listening to their MP3s, harried-looking adults trying to catch up on the news; you elbow your way through the mass of humans to the middle of the train carriage, where the air is less stale.DING. The train doors open fling wide at the next stop. You spot a familiar-looking face in the crowd, weary and indifferent as she joins the larger-than-ever group of people crowded into the too-tiny train. You wave excitedly; she blinks a little before comprehension and a huge smile dawns on her face.
The sky is falling. Clouds disperse into thin, wispy spirals of dust and water droplets and drafts of air. The sky splits apart - jagged pieces of light blue shift and grind against and away each other like a jigsaw puzzle falling into pieces, black edges showing endless, bottomless (topless?) spaces of darkness into eternity. Miles across miles across miles, you stare up into what is left of the sky, as short pieces fall around you, pricking your skin the way glass shards shear and break skin. The sky is falling. The clouds are dispersing. What is the end?
Worlds collide, they say. They collide, but they don't fuse - they skim off the surface of each other, a small brush, or perhaps they remain in contact with each other for a day, two months, a year, five years, twenty years, eternity. But the collision of worlds is but that - a collision, and maybe sparks emerge from the contact, but that is all. How can one world be another unless they fuse with each other wholly and completely? But if the fusion of worlds is impossible, then - we can never enter each others' worlds. We merely co-exist, don't we?
A blur of images - worn and tattered socks, holes poking from where the heel of a person should fit, loose threads holding the material together; a TV screen flickering with vivid images of a swordfight between sword-wielding samurai in traditional hakama; a yellow cup sitting innocently in front of you, cold and empty; a pencilbox - a gift from your boyfriend from his travels in Korea - decorated with teddy-bears of all shapes and sizes; a black piano draped in maroon cloth, photos from your childhood and present displayed in all their glory atop the piano; memories of your life.
The world flips upside-down as you stand - blood whirling and rushing into your head as a storm; hands gripping the sides of the bedpost overturning and upending as though you're standing on the ceiling, palms slick with sweat as yellow and black streaking past your vision; legs wobbling beneath - above? - you, unsteady, trembling, tottering. You take a hesitant step forward in this blur of your senses, this unnatural tilting of the world, as books slide upward and rock backwards out of focus - then the world is all right again, as you lean against the bookshelf, dizzy and panting.
She walks into the room with apprehension, nervous eyes darting around each and every nook and cranny. Hands slick with sweat are jammed into the pockets of her jeans, and her left leg trembles once, slightly, as she stops in front of you. "I-I don't know w-what I'm here for..."You smile grimly, waving a hand at the empty seat in front of you, across the table. Fingers twitching, she gingerly sits at the edge of the seat, biting her lower lip."Miss Rebecca," you state flatly. "Don't lie. What did you do with Robert Hunt's corpse yesterday?"
Sometimes you still bounce down the steps from your house on the twentieth floor, skipping two at a time and jumping down the last three. Your grip on the railing of the staircase is painful, sweaty palms doing very little to lessen the friction between palm and metal as you swing from one flight of steps to another. You don't do that much anymore, though you did that pretty often as a child - young, immature, playful. But even now, when you jump off the last three steps to the first floor, you can't wipe the grin off your face anyway.
time folds back along well-pressed creases. an accidental backspace deleting all of your hard work written over the past five minutes. staring into the computer screen wondering how many more words you'll have to write. unemployment; guts twisting with worry as you wonder what you've gotten yourself into, waiting none-too-calmly for your interview. smiling faces staring blankly at you as you flip through old photographs. time is a jester - he laughs at you with his too-wide grin and brings you back, again and again; all you can do is hope that everything changes this time round.
(stream of consciousness)my nose is plugged down with sticky mucus. rhapsody in blue plays in the background - the grand finale, as it always is in the Nodame Cantabile series. my mum whisks in and out of the kitchen, pottering around the house trying to fix the DVD and karaoke set. the mind is the most powerful weapon that can conquer, he says. my specs are itching on the bridge of my nose. piano keys - black and white, soft, and then loud and grand, in the background. the flowers grin as my mum waters them. all is calm and fine.
On some days you quietly plod down the streets of Alexandria in silent contemplation, watching as Vivi and Eiko take turns on the skipping rope with the kids. Other days, when you're itching for a fight, you lead Sora and his gang to Hollow Bastion, felling horde after horde of Heartless in no time. When you collapse at home after school (or work), you normally settle down into your sofa and find the best outfits for your customers in Eleanor's athena, internationally acclaimed boutique. Universes you wander into day after day - some days you wish you could make your own.
it's the saltwater room again, bluer and wider and more beautiful than before. you wriggle your toes into the warm sand, bury your feet under heap after heap of tossed, cooler sand that slides through your fingers like a cheap imitation of a waterfall. blue sky encased above saltwater, thin, drifting clouds floating by occasionally, filtering through the transparent walls of the room. you lay back in the sand, feeling prickles of sand slipping into your shirt, but the sun feels warm and nice on your face - you fall asleep with a smile on your face, dreaming of blue sea.
And they are all merely players, he says, as he tosses the handwritten script onto the floor in disgust. My soul and heart poured into black ink , the people act and produce and express everything I condense into words. So this is my work, my lines, and saying them differently from how I meant them to be.. I won’t take it. I cannot.
She merely shakes her head, lays a hand on his shoulder. “They put in their heart and soul too. You write the lines, they act them out. It’s not only yours, you know.”
Writing is hard work, for all it seems so easy to let words splutter and blubber on screen like popcorn. It's been ten years since I was a kid and sitting in front of my cranky desktop, merrily banging out silly stories about perfect girls in class (on a whim), lightning machines (for a science project), and about quests for Moon's Mirrors (highly unoriginal, and came from my budding gaming fad), and I still haven't found it any easier - on the contrary, it has gotten way more difficult. But I think, that's part of what makes writing fun (or not).
curling up at home with diana wynne jones while a storm rages outside the wondow is joy. you go through mitt's (of dalemark quartet fame) journey once - twice - over again, noting the parts you've forgotten or missed during your previous misreadings, chuckling at all the quietly funny bits and feeling sorry for mitt for all the messes he had thrown in his way during his longs journey. how the ending of the quartet is so unlike her other, later books - it's not a happy, sappy reunion, but a pretty, hopeful ending. diana wynne jones always makes you smile, without fail.
She sat in front of her black-covered laptop with pursed lips and a crease between her eyebrows that screamed 'frustrated' more than 'angry'. More than anything else, she would have liked to be out of here, the silent, echoing house she was trapped in again for the day, regardless of whether it was her family home or not. But under the given circumstances - ie. her father's work (of sorts, if you counted bullying gangsters into submission) - it was doubtful that she'd be able to enact an escape any time soon. She sighed, and flopped onto the sofa listlessly.
You queue up at the wrong line - when the management see your green-and-yellow tickets, they blink for a little before waving you to the line leading into the plaza, which is (thankfully) even shorter.But as you enter the plaza, you get a mere glimpse of several tables haphazardly stacked with worn secondhand books before poorly-aimed elbows and wildy-swung baskets obscure your vision. Bodies press and jostle against you for a few seconds before shuffling away far too slowly. You fight your way towards the nearest table, but your arm only meets bodies and baskets.
In the past one-and-a-half months since I'd started to regularly write 100 words each day, I'd written quite a number of original, imaginative (or maybe not) drabbles that had nothing to do with my real life. But maybe I've been inspired after reading the entries of others, because right now, I find myself writing more and more about the doings in real life (although consciously/unconsciously distancing myself from them - you, not me), taking the place of regular LJ updates. I guess it was always inevitable, because writing 100 words a day seems more convenient than not.
I find that it's the simplest things that make me smile now - cheerfully heated banter, home-cooked dinner, curling up on my bed on a rainy afternoon. A few days ago, drifting about in a bleak, melancholy mood again, I got a message on my phone from a friend, who told me how much he'd enjoyed my movie recommendation (Paprika). Today, meeting a friend unexpectedly in the middle of a thunderstorm lifted my mood, surprisingly, as we carefully skipped over puddles of water and huddled close under my umbrella. Moments like that are so much more precious than anything else.
There's something odd about falling in love. What is love? Decades, centuries, milleniums past - people have asked this question over and over again. Some say love is the desire to gain everything the other has. Others argue that love is that all-encompassing emotion that wraps us in fiery passion and desire. Yet again, there are people who simply comment that love is self-sacrificial, generous, calm, giving..But I've always wondered. If there's no correct answer, then how do we know that we've "fallen in love"? But maybe there isn't an answer for that either - we just do.