|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 Posted: Sat Jan 24, 2015 9:31 pm
When he dreams, there is the steady crunch of snow beneath his boots and the softer beat of Emmaline’s footsteps. Sometimes there is no conversation—only comfortable silence as they walk toward literature class; sometimes a car quickly rolls by, a colored blur in the growing distance. The streets are a dull grey and brown, but he fills them with golden lines and red mailboxes and gleaming cars of blue, green, and everything else.
His breaths will come out in slow puffs, white mist breezing past him before disappearing into the grey skies. Sometimes his bare hands are stuck in his jacket pockets, and sometimes his hand will reach for hers so he can feel the rough wool of her gloves. She’ll look down curiously, but look up with wry disapproval; then grip his hand all the tighter to keep them from freezing and his mouth curls into a love-struck smile while he turns his head away.
His dreams are a beautiful thing of the past. What was once a normal, boring life becomes a delicate work of art; monochrome memories with colors hastily smeared on, as if the nostalgia will transform the bad times into okay ones and the okay ones into good ones. Time moves forward, but when he dreams his shoes are stuck in the dirty slush as he tries to piece together the warm memories, tries to follow the trail of moments that led him to the present.
But the snow covers the path, everything fades fades fades (just like the memory of the warmth of her hand) until he can no longer recall what brought him to the island to start with.
”Why am I still here?” he breathes while staring at empty palms, burning pink of cold and ice.
The snow falls gently, swaying into lazy curves until collecting onto his shoulders and arms and hair like a heavy coat.
When he dreams, there is snow and rain and patches of flowers crushed by his feet. His hands are cold and wet strands of hair cling to his face as he walks somewhere, everywhere, nowhere. If he looks up the rain will stop so he can feel the sun on his skin.“Wilson?”So he looks up.“Wilson.”The rain keeps falling. He stares at his palms, skinny wrists shaking from the cold. He’s dreaming, and when he dreams the rain stops so he can enjoy the bitter warmth of his broken memories.“You’re going to catch a cold, man.”
Knees smack against each other, matching the rhythm of his clattering teeth as someone grabs his arm to take him to the infirmary.
This is a dream, so when will he taste the petrichor?
Petrichor by Kenshi Yonezu
TRANSLATION: lyrics
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun Jan 25, 2015 11:36 pm
Sometimes he realizes it is better to stay awake than to fall asleep and surrender to his pixie dreams. Those are the days he refuses to sleep, intoxicates himself with coffee and caffeine until he can barely blink. There is a window in his room—at least he thinks so, sometimes there is and sometimes there isn’t—but he feels more comfortable sitting outside the dorm building with a warm cup of coffee in both hands.
There isn’t much to stare at; he admires the stars for a while, but with his astronomy skills lacking his attention drifts to the moon. With the moon, there is more wiggle room for his mind to wander. The moon’s gravity is 1.622 meters per second squared. In Latin, it is called luna. They used to say it made people go crazy—
Fingers tap against the rough paper of his cup. He’s okay. Playing normal is easy. Think think think if she was the moon and he was the earth, wouldn’t that be a beautiful life? He looks to his right, staring into thin air like he knew he would when he asks with tears down his face—
Can we begin again?
Begin Again by Purity Ring
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Jan 26, 2015 10:41 am
Every morning, a force compels him to rise and change clothes and leave the room to run for the nearest portal for the latest mission. He’s forgotten the feeling of flying on autopilot, but every day is a lesson in remembering where exactly his place is and bit-by-bit he builds the memories onto the lies. He scatters tainted memories over what he thinks he used to be and begins again with another layer of untruths because there’s nothing else to do. There’s only running from what he’s become.
He wants to laugh. He can count the things he’s lost and broken on his hands and feet; he can scribble them into the walls, but trying to count what he has is a lost cause. He has one, two, three, five, pi, red, skies, blood, forget, forget, forget.
He laughs, hands on his stomach as he lets the tears spill to the floor.
I cannot remember. I cannot remember where it she him they are.
WOODEN DOLL by Kenshi Yonezu
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Jan 27, 2015 8:23 pm
Things are not quite right inside his head, he thinks as he drinks another cup of coffee. He cannot tell if he is asleep or awake because the dreams spill seamlessly into reality. A part of him thinks it used to be easy to pluck out the inconsistencies in his fantasies, but with each passing day the differences become scarcer by the second. Gramps’ voice is lost amongst the whispers of voices that sound like mother, like father, but it’s difficult to pry each voice apart when they all sound so similar in his mind.
Things are not right, so he plants himself in an empty seat inside the infirmary. His lips press together and his sweaty hands grip the side of the chair cushion while his legs childishly swing back and forth. When the life hunter steps into the room, he sees short dark hair and dark, dark violet eyes. She smiles pleasantly as she checks the clipboard. Her lips move and dull golden stars shimmer in her eyes, but silence leaves her mouth. She holds a hand out and wide-eyed, he reaches for her. She smiles again, takes his wrist gently and measures his blood pressure.
Something tightens in his chest, right where his heart used to be. Wide eyes glue themselves to the white floor until he catches her reflection and he sees she’s still wearing the star clip in her hair.
“Tell me if it hurts, okay?” She says.
“Oh—“ She looks at him, mouths his name and smiles.
“—I won’t say a thing.”
Santa Maria by Kenshi Yonezu
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Reply
