In Love

The sun was about to set. He sensed the summery rays gently hitting both his skin and heart.

Her hair was split near the side of her head. Her right bundle of hair cast a shadow on most of her left eye. It trailed down like a waterfall and stopped at chin level. Her left bundle of hair was at the same length, and was tucked behind her ear.

She smiled as if she knew that he loved her. Her cheekbones had a red hue, and were contracted to assume a smile that sat between demure and charming.

With her dark green eyes, she looked through mine, and into my heart. How could someone so easily make you feel like you're on a journey and home at the same time? How can someone instill the dreariest fears and the most gripping hopes just through a gaze? 

He knew his feelings, nothing more, and this was inexplicably enough for him for that moment and all moments to come.

Dream

I had a dream during today.

I woke up on a little cherry twig that laid on the ground atop a moustache. It was shaped with shaving cream, as if to make a statement.

The twig broke, making me accelerate down an endless tunnel of wondrous musical beings and cartoon like demons. And as fractals intertwined in orgasmic harmony and dissolved in a vast sea of silence, I decelerated to a full stop in the middle of an ocean that laid bare and waveless for as long as the eye can see.

Then I was submerged into the water, just enough to get the top of my head wet.

I then drowned, cried, and woke up.

A mistake

The modern man thinks of himself as unique. He thinks that, amidst the chatter and worries of a million others, he stays true to "himself" and does not steer off his "path".

His ego is adamant against the overwhelming torrent of circumstance; his existence is nothing but continuous. He lives in a momentary eternity, till he eventually, rather gracefully transitions into non-existence.

Isn't it eerie that we freak out about death so intensely yet so rarely, and are mostly truly shook by it when we face the thing itself?

Our composition is, so that we do not truly perceive the oceans of future and past surrounding our island of present. Present is what we truly have, and we don't even have much of that.

The modern man is an amalgamation of what he perceives. He is the rock he doesn't notice on the ground, the concept that he understands, the idea that he disregards, the tv show host that he kind of likes.

Yet he is so incredibly comfortable by the rather patched up thing that he calls himself. In his mind, every spool of existence intertwines at a point, and then untangles into meaningless eternity. For him, the knot exists independent of spools. This is a mistake.

The modern man is a mystery.

Armchair Mythology: Ritual on the Shore

A man strips down to the state he had employed when he were immediately out of the womb, only to fashion a wide brimmed straw hat. Ashore, and close enough to the rim of the sea for the tide to come to wet his feet, he places his hat where he stands, tracing around it on the sand with a circle of roughly the radius of his stature.

This marks the beginning of his 40 day trial of conviction, in both senses, during in which a stray spirit will notice pensive taunt and try to deceive him into exiting his circle. The man will interact with other people as usual, often receiving necessities and such, and will also face the spirits provocation through them.

The man will find it's best to notice the tide, for it will have the ability to push off the hat from the center of said circle while he is in a state of his rest or inadvertence, which would work in favor of the spirit, but would not be caused by it, for the tide is, with all its neutrality, nature inside the microcosmal circle.

If he fails to stay in his circle, the spirit will have a claim on his soul; otherwise, the spirit will be trapped under the hat, and the claim will be of the reversed nature.

The Second Time

He felt a tremor running down his spine. The multitudinous primal mental processes that made him operate unoptimally to his liking effortlessly classified the tremor as eerie, for he had never experienced such a feeling in his spine.

Then he thought, eerie wasn't the right word. Things eerie were spooky standalone events in uneventful contexts; a vase drop that breaks the silence of night, the appearance of a big mole on a baby's forehead, but not this. This tremor was out of fear and crisis; it was terror metastasizing.

He hated his instincts at that moment for their inaccuracy. And he hated himself for hating his instincts at this moment, for the timing of his inner confusion couldn't be worse. Suddenly, his blank stare towards her was filled with her, and eventually his, presence.

Their eyes met.

He stood up, shrugged. He reminded himself to stop romanticizing someone who he hasn't met, then recognized the futility of his self suggestion, and tried to find much needed clarity of mind in a deep breath.

The First Time

It was windy.

The crossroads lengthened in all four cardinal directions. One could say the flowering crabapple trees in the periphery were almost sentient, and were striving to better fit their adjective to the best of their abilities. It was 7:57 AM on a winter day, and his concerns were in resonance with the floral rustling. Every sluggish step a fellow student took to reveal oneself from the edge of the Mansardic red building in the distance plucked his nerve in a nervous pizzicato.

He rocked backed and forth, embracing his baggy hoodie in search for primitive comfort, and recalled his plan. Open with "hey", tell her she's cute, give her the number. Three easy steps, yet the mere thought of carrying them out gave him the rush of both the robber and the robbed.

He worried; what if she were uncomfortable, what if she were grossed out, what if she were frigid, gay, taken... And as his thoughts whizzed on and about and sporadically neared the boundary of the unconscious that was the Taj Mahal of worries, a sight whacked his being into presence.

There she was, with her slender figure and black beanie, almost advancing towards him with a brisk stride. Every step towards the center of the crossroads revealed a detail about her, and produced feelings of sundry variety in him whose sole function were, all in all, to demonstrate that impossible tasks weren't entirely impossible, for they could be more.

Inarticulate Laundry

Maybe her red laundry basket wasn't as plastic as her, but it was as full. And her enthusiasm, or what was left of it, was much more stale than the two week old laundry inhabiting said basket.

Listless, she raised her glance to the laundry basket. It was red, and huge to an extent that she couldn't circumscribe it with her arms.

For a moment, she was appalled by the amount of laundry in it. She thought, if her laundries had sentience and a way to communicate, they wouldn't have much to talk about. If her life was a book, this thought now could transition into how the last couple of weeks were uneventful, and lead to a flashback describing some boring event following another boring event following another boring event leading up to this somatically uneventful yet emotionally imperative cathartic moment.

She pondered, was her life pulp; were lives supposed to be not pulp?