Rain

From my Tumblr

The hands of the clock ticked away as she laid on her bed, hearing the endless patter of rain on her roof. It came without warning; hasty like the wind sweeping that once dull night. She looked out her small, glass window and watched the water racing down the walls of her home. Aggressive drops with bullet-like swiftness filled the midnight sky, as she gazed for almost an hour.

And then it stopped. The night grew silent, like all sound was subdued, desperately gasping for air. She stared into the dimly lit lamp by her gate and her heart beat faster. Sweat dripped down her forehead, and her night gown stained remnants of her own anxiety and fear. The rain poured again and she could see vague splashes on the road lined up by seemingly empty houses.

She glanced at the bed beside hers, and the innocent child sleeping so peacefully was gone. The outline of the soft curls on his head and his small body curled up, his face holding features so delicate and fragile completely vanished, as if the wind blew him away with no verdict. What lay was a dark, shapeless shadow casted on the wrinkled sheets. The echo of the rain rang in her ears and filled her head. At that moment, she knew he would never return.

Trying to keep still, she closed her eyes and let the unconscious take hold of her. The winds grew stale, and she knew she was not alone. She was soon drifting off to sleep, unable to let the tranquility of the night keep her mind at ease.

As she entered another dimension, the rain once more, poured vigorously.

Getting through

Photo from my Tumblr

I find myself thinking about you quite often, when I know I am not in the position to. From where I am, I watch, enchanted and speechless, wondering if we’d ever meet. That unreasonable ache continues to throb each and every day. I have no control over it, yet my will power seems to let this certain emotion grow on its own. I long for something I can’t utter, something I fear, yet I continue to bask in thoughts of you, this knowingly requited feeling slowly killing me with every fleeting moment.

It baffles me, how my cheeks flush, how my palms sweat and how I stutter when we speak… How we glance at each other, with tacit feelings lingering in the air as it chokes us for a verdict so unexplainable, so forbidden. It sickens me when I feel the need to see you and just know you’re there, even if mere words are barely exchanged, for fear of aggravating what is quite fragile, quite dangerous.

What I feel for you, I do not know. We never will because we never can and we never should. We are divided into two different worlds, separated by fate’s cruelty.

The very thought strains me, and the everyday struggle is quite a burden, but even if I can’t get to you, even if the endings of such circumstances would remain unreachable, I sit in this corner, tender, wondering what will never be.

As much as it kills me, although I see you, what will always remain extant would be my longing to meet you at the other side.

(Non-fictional, based on a true but impersonal story)

That tiny crack

Photo from my Tumblr

On the top floor of an old warehouse, under all the glimmer of the stars and bodacious gleam of city lights, I aimlessly wonder what is beyond.

I watch my life pass by and every second is a remembrance of what has been. I have no traces of my father growing up. Mother would always keep him hidden, like a rich memory kept away. She’d always seem so distant whenever I’d ask about him. I continue to wonder if he’s the man smoking by the pavement, or the man eating a sandwich by the fountain, or the man walking his dog every day before dawn.

I consider myself a wallflower, unnoticed, unseen, unheard of. Being shoved and hit would be a daily routine for me as I’d walk down the hallways of my otherwise peculiar school. I never had any real friends. I don’t think I ever talked to anyone about anything. I just wrote them all down. I’d pretend they were being read, though.

One time, during one of our school dances, a boy talked to me. He had very bright eyes that seemed to have a life of their own. I couldn’t help staring. He made me laugh and cry at the same time, and I didn’t even know that was possible. We would see each other every day, talking about different things and going to different places. I never thought I could feel that way about anyone.

One day, I was down by the pier, at our favorite spot. The sunset was beautiful, but I wished he was there so he could hold my hand and wait until the sky was dark. It was one of our favorite things to do. I waited for hours and hours. Weeks passed by. He left town, his friend said. Didn’t you know?

My mother barged into my room to find me sobbing on the floor. “I told you not to trust him,” she said. “I told you not to trust anyone.” I tried looking into her tired eyes and I didn’t know who she was and what else she would say. Several coughs emerged as I could smell the rotten smoke coming out of her mouth. I continued crying until I dozed off on the cold floor. I stopped believing in anything ever since.

I step on the ledge, look below and watch cars viciously pass by. People seemingly, nonchalantly are taking strolls down the sidewalk. I thought of things I would say to people who would want to ask about my life, and I realized that there were none. There was nothing to say, no one to talk to, and no one who would understand.

The cool wind tries to choke me and catch my breath. I slip and the horizon disappears.

Dedication post

Photo from etsy.com

His pieces are never understood on the surface, or sometimes never understood at all. There's always something behind his thoughts so effortlessly written. This distinct complexity plucks a nerve, leaving me quite puzzled. How can I feel for something I can't even fully understand?

He knows the right mixture of fantasy and everyday life. He also has this gift of knowing how to tear my heart out and knowing which areas to aggravate, releasing emotions that I wasn't even aware of.

I consider an author to be exceptionally good if he can make me feel deeply, if he can translate ordinary phenomena into something much more than that, if he can change perspectives and of course, write about them beautifully. Murakami's a genius. Everything he writes is always so surreal, and I always get transported into a chaotic universe of some sort, where its hues are far beyond what my vast, imaginative mind can already handle.