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floatingstories

From the lone wolf’s track

As she walks from those different sequences of the same sidewalks she moves her lips as if chanting something so religious that she is deeply devoted to. And then she looks up and sees people and she sees those stories floating above their heads or sideways. Those aren’t necessarily real ones, but they are what she wants to believe they are. And then she does what she has been doing for so long, make it all up.

She makes up stories of how it could be, how it must be like to… or how it would be and she smiles sometimes but sometimes she wonders too long for her to notice she has reached her destination. Her stories come from her everyday journey, on different tracks of the same mind.

These are the stories from the sidewalk (the name was already too popular and copyrighted for me to take it as my title) which come literally from the sidewalk on the way back to her home.

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What if..

What if we are only part of a story some housewife in her late thirties is writing to kill time, yet so intricately that she has covered up all the timelines from the big bang to the end with all the history that we know of till now and the author decided that the characters should have no idea about their existence or purpose of being there

What is reality?
How vast is our universe now?
What is life?
What is death?

Steps

At dawn I find myself climbing lush green hills passing all the forests behind me to finally find the sun shining brighter as I reach the top.
Now a snow capped mountain, I am cutting the storm coming my direction trying to walk bare feet in the thick snow. After reaching the top I slip off and an avalanche drives me down to a desert.
Few chunks of snow and everything else covered in sand, brown. I walk in thirst and then an ocean greets me at dusk.
I dive in and the waves rise high and take me far away into the horizon and I get a sensation of falling.
I am falling down a waterfall into fresh water. I finally drink.
Its night, and I am complete.

 

The tattoos

A bright morning glistened inside the room. The room had its own sense of divinity with pure white walls, spacious interior and somewhat symmetric vibes. The mattress covered with white sheets lied at the center with respect to the wall that was opposite to the sliding door, a typical Japanese style ambience. The mattress had two indoor green plants adorning beautiful hand-painted vases on each of its side and right above it on the wall lay hanging a large life-size scratched yet shining samurai armor covered in black and gold. The windows were large shoji (translucent paper held by a bamboo lattice in forms of dividing doors and windows) that let the rays of the rising Sun come perfectly like a katana’s form in an experienced pair of hands. And the entire room had wooden furnishing including the floor that was softly covered by authentic Japanese mats (tatami).

Amidst the ambience was a boy wearing a black kimono sitting on the mattress seiza style, the traditional formal Japanese sitting style, facing the wall and not the entrance. He had copper skin and black hair with facial features that seemed to have sternly stared at death more than its own reflection. A girl, then, enters the room and slides the door shut. The girl was Japanese and had a thin physique with short black hair and fair skin. Surprisingly she was neither wearing any makeup nor had her hair pinned up. She was wearing a simple Yukata. She possessed a similar stare like the boy, one that screamed the enemy’s soul out through their eyes.

Hearing her entrance, he slid down his kimono slowly revealing his bare back before her. His back was entirely covered with a gigantic dragon tattoo. It was obvious that he was part of a huge mafia for him to have made the elaborate symbolic tattoo.

“Should I be scared, love?”, she asked nonchalantly.

“No, you don’t have to be.” he replied with similar indifference.

He couldn’t face her, but he was sure that she would leave and waited patiently for the sound of the door being opened. It was the obvious move.

“It must have hurt huh?” She said with her eyes moist and closing the distance.

She stayed.

He was relieved yet his eyes were moist.

“Yes, it did.” he said with soft voice. This was his first and last submission.

She sat down and traced the dragon on his back as if feeling the pain during its making.

Then she stood up and went in front of him and sat down facing the wall and took off her kimono too revealing her lotus tattoo. He couldn’t believe his eyes but he accepted her difference with beauty and love, and proceeded to trace the lotus petals. Both of them were breathing in unison that reflected how their hearts felt heavier with every single touch.

“So we’re different yet the same.” he said.

She turned to face him and they held each other tightly as if they would never let go. They hugged and swayed their fingers on each others’ tattoos as if trying to complete the circuit. And they did. The tattoos then came alive encircling the lovers. The lotus bloomed with an enormous size as the dragon emerged from within the root, swimming through it’s stalk and escaping out majestically. The petals scattered in all directions with water droplets and the dragon, like vine, spiraled around the two, breathing fire. A large suspended drop of water and the fire breathed out by the dragon then dissolved into one another and engulfed the lovers to flow into ying and yang representing unification amidst rivalry.

 

 

Dreaming

She was riding her red scooter on the same everyday road, her daily morning pilgrimage to her college. Her journey usually began with a beautiful view of the Himalayas. The empty moving road had absorbed her, the concrete and the white lines passing by faster now and she could feel her heart racing faster than the road that couldn’t keep up.

She was no longer wearing her modest t-shirt and jeans with a college bag hung on her back and her hair trapped in the helmet instead she was wearing a high waist ripped denim shorts and cropped up hanging on one shoulder top flaunting her navel and back of the top ripped too revealing her caged bra, revealing a little of herself. Her hair was as curly and frizzy as before but here she let it out because the speedy winds loved them more than an elastic cage. She was riding on a Ducati bike clutching her boyfriend’s leather jacket closely as he drove even faster, he drove her to the kind of high adrenaline that could not be compared with anything she had had before. The dusky horizon blurred out behind them as she slept in that cradle of euphoria. In this reality she smoked, had piercings and tattoos on her and had someone who held her while they witnessed the stunts other bikers had to show. Only one thing was left now, she would have to be chewing gum radiating a thug attitude while leaning on him as he leaned on the bike. They then drove off to isolation, empty road again and she was no longer clinging to him but spreading her arms out breathing in the speed as much as she could when the cold wind brushed her patches of bruises on her elbows, knees and thighs and she loved her scars because they held stories and experiences and they were proof to the fact that she lived what she loved.

Sudden brake, the destination ruled her to stop. She found it depressing as she took off her helmet to think that even a place could dictate her to stop or go. An everyday person living in an everyday life had completed an everyday pilgrimage but she still dares to fantasize and get teleported to another reality, perhaps a place somewhere in the universe where it is all happening and she is perhaps still not happy.

Details

What are details? How do you picture details?

I think details are like collage bits. When I try to describe a landscape that I have seen, I begin with parts of it. Starting with the purple sky tainted with water color sunset drops and now I paste the clouds, huge with sharp circular edges. The green hills and the beautiful reflective lake fill the background. Now that the basic picture has been formed, I proceed to paste on another layer. The lush green wheat fields that stretch on for miles along the lake and a small path that runs through the field which seemed well trodden upon. When I walk through this path I am entirely lost amidst the tall crops and peering over it seems almost like the people wearing red and blue walking afar are all floating on the green field. The minute details come forth now as I paste the tiny colored houses on the hills, the white birds flying in a procession and the numerous lotus leaves and stalks that cover the lake whole.

I have messed it all up haven’t I? I have started from somewhere and deviated from it, then came directly back at it to tell you something that will change the entire picture’s focus. Believe me if I could describe it exactly how it was, I would but it would probably lose the importance of its existence. Ah! but if you were exactly where I was, you would feel that light dusk making the sky look closer and the eyes stretch to distances you had never focused at; you would feel the lake still try to reflect the clouds’ formation despite being covered entirely of the lotuses; you would feel the slippery water droplets just lay on the lotus leaves touching it but not wetting it and you would feel it all coming together with a whiff of a cool breeze that waves the green wheat stalks and all the torn pieces come together into a single picture and everything is alive. The birds, the lake, the crops, the hills, the clouds, the sky and you.

Scream

Scream against the masquerade, scream against new things.
Scream, into rebellion. It is the only thing that defines you.

Why’s and Maybe’s

Why do you always find beauty in sharp edged clear shadows? Why not the blurred ones?

I don’t know, what do you find special in the blurry ones?

It makes me feel divine, see, the unsharp edges look like each point is emitting light. So it looks like I am emitting light.

So maybe I had never seen it like that so that you would tell me this beautiful thing.

Maybe.

Saved till now

The wires and the trees then celebrate my arrival
by bestowing upon me the few drops of rain that they had so lovingly saved.
All they have they give.
Who am I to have given up?

Night

O night, tell me if I sing when you are the darkest
Will they call me the witch I am
or love me as a nightingale?

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