Friday, February 23, 2007
I sit beneath a sky filled with a drooping haze that lingers long after the dawn has left. And no one knows. No one cares. Who knows how long I've been here. Time is not important. They don't care, I don't care. In the end, at least I know that I am content here. Just me, the barren ground, a dying tree - and the thick haze all around. All grey.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Sunday, January 21, 2007
The Scholar
A flash of black hair. With flecks of green. He remembered.
But did he?
Was it green with streaks of black? He worried that perhaps time was causing him to forget. But no, that would not happen now. He would not forget her. He couldn't. He couldn't because he had spent so much time looking for her that everything else fell away. If she faded from his memory, he would be nothing now.
He continued searching because there was nothing else for him to do.
It had been ten years. What was he really expecting to find now?
"I want you to," it was a voice. Cold and indistinct, but still with that familiar tone. "I want you to promise."
A promise? Had he ever made a promise? He couldn't remember now. He knew now that he was not making promises to anyone. But that was now. Maybe he did make promises before. Before, when his friends, no - his family still knew each other's names. Before. When she was still around.
Names. He did not think he had forgotten any of them. But he did not trust himself so much to go looking for any of them now, either.
"I want you to promise me something." A voice again. A flash of green and of black. He did not trust himself, but he knew he had to ask someone.
Even if they were just a memory.
A bearded man surrounded by books. His body looked unsturdy. A ball mounted on two sticks. It was quite clear that he had spent the past ten years devoted to his studies. Thick glasses framed his slightly rounded face.
"Can I help you?" the man asked, not looking up from the yellowed book he was fingering.
"I am looking for someone."
"Ah sir, I am afraid I cannot help you. I have lived in close proximity to my books for the past ten---"
The man stopped and gazed, open-mouthed at the figure standing before him.
And then, nodding knowingly, the figure responded. "You remember me, don't you?"
The man smiled for a moment, and looked up from his book. "Have you found her yet?"
But the figure stood still and simply stared.
"I see. Well, logically speaking, I have no idea why you are still looking? But," the tone in the man's voiced warmed, "as a friend, I know that nothing I could stay will stop you. What do you wish to know? I mean, why did you want to speak to me? Surely, you know that after she left - we all kind of fell apart and I sort of retreated into my library. I've always loved my books and, at first, I kind of thought that studying these texts might help me figure out what happened to her - but then, I began to realise that, even if I did find something that would help me - there was nothing I could do anymore. I was only one person," the man hung his head. "Eventually I stopped looking for answers, I know that makes me a bad person. I know---"
He stopped him, placing a hand on the man's shoulder, "it does not make you a bad person. It makes you human. No one could hold it against you. I certainly don't. In any case, I came here to ask you something."
"What is that?" that man said, lifting his glasses onto his forehead.
"What do you remember of her? I find it difficult to trust my own memories, but I think the key to finding her still lies there."
The man ran his fingers through his short hair for a moment and then looked at the figure with a tired expression on his face. "I can say that I remember very little. She has since faded from my thoughts, I regret to say. But that's ultimately what happens, I suppose, people move on."
The figure stood silent.
"I am sorry that I could not be of more help to you. I, however, wish you luck. I suppose that you will need it."
The figure, unflinching, responded. "Where are the others?"
The man pointed one figure in the air. "While I do know who you mean, I am afraid that none of them told me where they disappeared to. It's really a shame how quickly all of them wanted to distance from their friends. I didn't understand it while it was happening. I didn't understand it, even though I was part of it. I still don't understand it, truth be told."
The figure closing his eyes with regret, began to leave the man's small library but, as he turned to leave, the scholar called out to him.
"Ah! Perhaps there is one person!" He said, rummaging through a set of old papers. "Yes!" he handed the tall man standing at his door one of the papers. "While I realise that you two did not get along in the past, as far as I can recall - he is really the only person I have any information on at all."
And then, slowly and carefully, the figure stepped back outside - trying to restrain a slight smile forcing his lips up towards his wind-blown cheeks.
--------------------
Part two of what seems to be an actual bit of a story. Ha.
Love,
~Kal.
A flash of black hair. With flecks of green. He remembered.
But did he?
Was it green with streaks of black? He worried that perhaps time was causing him to forget. But no, that would not happen now. He would not forget her. He couldn't. He couldn't because he had spent so much time looking for her that everything else fell away. If she faded from his memory, he would be nothing now.
He continued searching because there was nothing else for him to do.
It had been ten years. What was he really expecting to find now?
"I want you to," it was a voice. Cold and indistinct, but still with that familiar tone. "I want you to promise."
A promise? Had he ever made a promise? He couldn't remember now. He knew now that he was not making promises to anyone. But that was now. Maybe he did make promises before. Before, when his friends, no - his family still knew each other's names. Before. When she was still around.
Names. He did not think he had forgotten any of them. But he did not trust himself so much to go looking for any of them now, either.
"I want you to promise me something." A voice again. A flash of green and of black. He did not trust himself, but he knew he had to ask someone.
Even if they were just a memory.
A bearded man surrounded by books. His body looked unsturdy. A ball mounted on two sticks. It was quite clear that he had spent the past ten years devoted to his studies. Thick glasses framed his slightly rounded face.
"Can I help you?" the man asked, not looking up from the yellowed book he was fingering.
"I am looking for someone."
"Ah sir, I am afraid I cannot help you. I have lived in close proximity to my books for the past ten---"
The man stopped and gazed, open-mouthed at the figure standing before him.
And then, nodding knowingly, the figure responded. "You remember me, don't you?"
The man smiled for a moment, and looked up from his book. "Have you found her yet?"
But the figure stood still and simply stared.
"I see. Well, logically speaking, I have no idea why you are still looking? But," the tone in the man's voiced warmed, "as a friend, I know that nothing I could stay will stop you. What do you wish to know? I mean, why did you want to speak to me? Surely, you know that after she left - we all kind of fell apart and I sort of retreated into my library. I've always loved my books and, at first, I kind of thought that studying these texts might help me figure out what happened to her - but then, I began to realise that, even if I did find something that would help me - there was nothing I could do anymore. I was only one person," the man hung his head. "Eventually I stopped looking for answers, I know that makes me a bad person. I know---"
He stopped him, placing a hand on the man's shoulder, "it does not make you a bad person. It makes you human. No one could hold it against you. I certainly don't. In any case, I came here to ask you something."
"What is that?" that man said, lifting his glasses onto his forehead.
"What do you remember of her? I find it difficult to trust my own memories, but I think the key to finding her still lies there."
The man ran his fingers through his short hair for a moment and then looked at the figure with a tired expression on his face. "I can say that I remember very little. She has since faded from my thoughts, I regret to say. But that's ultimately what happens, I suppose, people move on."
The figure stood silent.
"I am sorry that I could not be of more help to you. I, however, wish you luck. I suppose that you will need it."
The figure, unflinching, responded. "Where are the others?"
The man pointed one figure in the air. "While I do know who you mean, I am afraid that none of them told me where they disappeared to. It's really a shame how quickly all of them wanted to distance from their friends. I didn't understand it while it was happening. I didn't understand it, even though I was part of it. I still don't understand it, truth be told."
The figure closing his eyes with regret, began to leave the man's small library but, as he turned to leave, the scholar called out to him.
"Ah! Perhaps there is one person!" He said, rummaging through a set of old papers. "Yes!" he handed the tall man standing at his door one of the papers. "While I realise that you two did not get along in the past, as far as I can recall - he is really the only person I have any information on at all."
And then, slowly and carefully, the figure stepped back outside - trying to restrain a slight smile forcing his lips up towards his wind-blown cheeks.
--------------------
Part two of what seems to be an actual bit of a story. Ha.
Love,
~Kal.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
A Beginning
That familiar whiteness falling from the sky.
There was a time when it meant something, when there was significance to it. The snow used to mean an advent of something. The snow would fall and the world would be hushed with dread, for fear that she was coming. But she had long since been gone. However, no one smiled to know that she would never return. No one.
No one had even noticed her passing. They did not notice that her disappearance caused that had always gathered to witness her coming to scatter, to disperse into the world. Friends, they once were. Now, they were strangers drifting across the land that all of them once called home.
It was snowing again, but none of them cared anymore. Time passed and they settled into new lives and tried to forget that time in their pasts. That time when they had stood together with others who felt the same as they did. The time when they stood united. But now, one of them was gone - and the rest could not hold.
A family. A family was dying.
But most were doing their best to forget those times now. Spending time trying to make their own new families, they were doing their best at erasing their past lives.
All but one.
It had been ten years, but still one of them refused to forget.
They told him that she was dead. But he knew that really they just wanted her to be because that would make them feel better about giving up on her. She was gone, yes - but there must have been a reason for it.
He looked out the window of the small lodge that he was staying in for the night. The wind had formed the snow into wispy, drifting piles across the lawn outside.
Ten years. Had it really been ten years? He certainly felt older. His mind seemed more at ease now, more clear. He focussed only on one thing now. It was more than just about proving everyone wrong. This was simple truth to him. She was alive, and he was going to find her.
He stepped out into the swirling snow and wrapped his scarf around his face to protect himself from the icy wind.
She was alive, and that was enough.
---------------------
Kalinka's next attempt at writing a story that does, indeed, include everyone she knows because they like those stories.
-KB.
That familiar whiteness falling from the sky.
There was a time when it meant something, when there was significance to it. The snow used to mean an advent of something. The snow would fall and the world would be hushed with dread, for fear that she was coming. But she had long since been gone. However, no one smiled to know that she would never return. No one.
No one had even noticed her passing. They did not notice that her disappearance caused that had always gathered to witness her coming to scatter, to disperse into the world. Friends, they once were. Now, they were strangers drifting across the land that all of them once called home.
It was snowing again, but none of them cared anymore. Time passed and they settled into new lives and tried to forget that time in their pasts. That time when they had stood together with others who felt the same as they did. The time when they stood united. But now, one of them was gone - and the rest could not hold.
A family. A family was dying.
But most were doing their best to forget those times now. Spending time trying to make their own new families, they were doing their best at erasing their past lives.
All but one.
It had been ten years, but still one of them refused to forget.
They told him that she was dead. But he knew that really they just wanted her to be because that would make them feel better about giving up on her. She was gone, yes - but there must have been a reason for it.
He looked out the window of the small lodge that he was staying in for the night. The wind had formed the snow into wispy, drifting piles across the lawn outside.
Ten years. Had it really been ten years? He certainly felt older. His mind seemed more at ease now, more clear. He focussed only on one thing now. It was more than just about proving everyone wrong. This was simple truth to him. She was alive, and he was going to find her.
He stepped out into the swirling snow and wrapped his scarf around his face to protect himself from the icy wind.
She was alive, and that was enough.
---------------------
Kalinka's next attempt at writing a story that does, indeed, include everyone she knows because they like those stories.
-KB.
Friday, January 19, 2007
The Dancer and The Dance
Six months.
He wasn't really sure what it meant at first, and often would run the words across his tongue. "You have six months to live," the doctor said, shaking his head.
Six months, and then would he be nothing? What was that anyway? How could the doctor know how long he had to live? What gave him the right to say that?
But, six months later, he was lying in a hospital bed - barely able to move. He wanted to scream out, but his voice was not as loud as it once was. He just wanted to be able to react against this somehow. He was once a dancer. He was used to having his body listen to him. He had spent his whole life trying to get it to do that. And now, now it was completely feeble. He was barely able to lift his head anymore.
The end, the end, the end.
But no. This wasn't the end yet. He was not dead yet. The only way he knew this is that his body still seared with pain. It wasn't the end but, to tell the truth, he kind of wanted it to be now.
He missed not being able to dance. He missed the stage. He missed that moment of unity between music and body. Between the dancer and the dance. He missed being a part of life.
Machines and beeping. He wasn't sure what they did, but he didn't want to find out. Doctors and nurses. They seemed oddly blurry now, far away.
Blurry and far. And then melted away completely.
All before him felt hazy and clouded, but then he stood. For the first time in months, he stood up and looked at the room around him. He could see nothing. He could see nothing, but he could still hear.
Music. That was the only word for what it was. Cold and gray, the sounds around him swirled and he felt his body lift its foot in the air. A dance.
He closed his eyes, and he twirled to this music that came from all around him. He felt it enter his veins and purge him of all the pain that had built itself around his body. He smiled and danced. He stopped for a moment and, in his happiness, smiled larger and brighter than he had ever in his life. So much that he felt his body would have nothing to do but to explode and leave his spirit to dance forever.
Machines and beeping. Doctors and nurses. Hazy, clouded noise. And music. Then an immense smiling that felt like it could completely destroy the body that held it because of its size. Then an explosion. Then, nothing.
---------
Inspired by a conversation with someone who said that my writing wasn't something they could relate to. This is an attempt at drawing my writing outside myself to make it more "relateable".
~KB.
Six months.
He wasn't really sure what it meant at first, and often would run the words across his tongue. "You have six months to live," the doctor said, shaking his head.
Six months, and then would he be nothing? What was that anyway? How could the doctor know how long he had to live? What gave him the right to say that?
But, six months later, he was lying in a hospital bed - barely able to move. He wanted to scream out, but his voice was not as loud as it once was. He just wanted to be able to react against this somehow. He was once a dancer. He was used to having his body listen to him. He had spent his whole life trying to get it to do that. And now, now it was completely feeble. He was barely able to lift his head anymore.
The end, the end, the end.
But no. This wasn't the end yet. He was not dead yet. The only way he knew this is that his body still seared with pain. It wasn't the end but, to tell the truth, he kind of wanted it to be now.
He missed not being able to dance. He missed the stage. He missed that moment of unity between music and body. Between the dancer and the dance. He missed being a part of life.
Machines and beeping. He wasn't sure what they did, but he didn't want to find out. Doctors and nurses. They seemed oddly blurry now, far away.
Blurry and far. And then melted away completely.
All before him felt hazy and clouded, but then he stood. For the first time in months, he stood up and looked at the room around him. He could see nothing. He could see nothing, but he could still hear.
Music. That was the only word for what it was. Cold and gray, the sounds around him swirled and he felt his body lift its foot in the air. A dance.
He closed his eyes, and he twirled to this music that came from all around him. He felt it enter his veins and purge him of all the pain that had built itself around his body. He smiled and danced. He stopped for a moment and, in his happiness, smiled larger and brighter than he had ever in his life. So much that he felt his body would have nothing to do but to explode and leave his spirit to dance forever.
Machines and beeping. Doctors and nurses. Hazy, clouded noise. And music. Then an immense smiling that felt like it could completely destroy the body that held it because of its size. Then an explosion. Then, nothing.
---------
Inspired by a conversation with someone who said that my writing wasn't something they could relate to. This is an attempt at drawing my writing outside myself to make it more "relateable".
~KB.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
I am not sure who still checks my blog, but this is an "I'm not dead" post. I haven't forgot about the blog either. It is simply that I am writing something that is a bit larger than normal and I haven't really had the time to write the little things that usually populate this blog. Who knows, though, I may post bits of "the project" on here. I don't know yet. We shall see. So yes, to conclude I am not dead nor have I been inflicted with a case of "lazy".
Stay Tuned,
-Kalinka.
Stay Tuned,
-Kalinka.
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