The convict stares around him. The Colosseum filled to the brim with people waiting to see the main show - death by hanging for he who committed the highest sin of the Empire.
Killing the King.
He faces down towards the priest staring him in the eye - looking back at him to the best of his ability while keeping himself unrestrained by the rope round his neck. The crowds roar. The executioner remains emotionless - none see the face behind the ashened mask. "Purge his sin! Cleanse Our land! Hang his head and cut his breath!" a man shouts. Another follows. Another. Soon the audience is chanting. Purge his sin. Cleanse our land. Hang his head and cut his breath.
"Stop!" shouts the priest. Immediate silence. The crowd wavers in anticipation. The executioner yawns with apathy. He continues to stare down.
"This man here has committed the greatest of sins against the Holyland!" the priest shouts. The Colosseum roars back. Almost instantly they begin to chant again.
"But!" the priest shouts again. "we cannot grant sin victory by sinning against the sinner. No! It is in divine providence that we must give him the final chance to see The Way, to repent, to do good. Without it!" the crowd is silent.
"There is no justification for our cleansing of his soul." The crowd is solemn.
"Convict!" the command echoes throughout the Colosseum. The priest looks into his eyes. "You have committed the gravest of sins in the history of our Holyland. You have killed the Honoured King, blest by the Gods themselves. Regicide, divine mutiny, and treason. Those are the three largest sins you bear. Do you have anything to say of your unhallowed actions?"
The Colosseum stays silent, waiting for the convict's reply. The convict stays silent. The executioner remains nonchalant to the silence.
"Convict," the priest says, more gravely. "In the absence of our Hallowed King and in the mental distraughtness of His Royal Family, I, the High Priest of Our Holyland, have offered to take proceedings of this trial. Their divine wrath may have banished your life from this world by now, but I am not permitted to be of their nature, as I am but a High Priest humbly serving the King. Take this chance seriously, convict. It shall not come in any other lifetime of yours."
"Do you have anything," he says, pausing for a moment. "anything, Convict, to say of your unhallowed actions?" he stares at the convict, who only stares back in silence.
"Nothing, my priest," the convict says, still staring him in the face.
"Nothing? Nothing shall come of nothing! Do you intend to mock the benevolence granted upon you by sheer grace and divine will? Do you intend to scoff upon the charity of this nation, for whom you have lived within since your birth, and by your very choice at this moment perhaps your death too! Insolence!" he shouts. The crowd goes wild, infused too with the wrath that had suddenly overcome the priest. The Colosseum is filled with nothing but chanting and roaring again. Amidst the chaos, the priest sees the convict's lips move. He tries to hear, but fails. He cannot decipher the words of the convict.
"Silence!" the priest screams, drowning out immediately the roars and chants of the entire audience. Silence again. "The Convict speaks. Desecrate not the name of our Kingdom by depriving his right to speak." he turns to the convict. "Speak, Convict."
"What I had said, o priest, is that it is not insolence, my priest." the convict continues to stare into the priest's eyes.
"I see," the priest remarks, and looks at the convict again. "why is that so, Convict?"
"For my actions cannot be considered insolence if they were so deemed deserving, my priest." the crowd screams, visibly agitated. The rows of spectators stand and hurl stones at the convict. He does nothing. The executioner fumbles around, trying his best not to get hit by the stones.
"It is known!" the convict shouts. "Common knowledge, even! Of the divine wrath of the King and the Royal Family. Their trials and cleansings! With every purification the gallows are filled with the corpses of a thousand citizens! Tell me, O Priest! Tell me, O Country! Tell me, O Kingdom! Is their divine right to wrath worth the lives of thousands gone with every purification?"
"There is no sin in my actions! For I exist here a martyr to the beliefs that our Holyland have stood for since time immemorial. Is it not sin to purge the lives of many without the first pardon to death, o priest? Is it not sin to call for the gullotine on a man before the crowd can bear to even throw a stone?" the convict continues in his tirade, always staring into the eyes of the priest, each statement with more power than the next.
"It is divine retribution, O Kingdom! Divine retribution that such a fate befall the King by the hands of mere men like me. For the Gods themselves have invoked in me the divine wrath I needed to serve sacred justice against the Royalty that desecrate the hallowed name of our Holyland! Is this act, called upon by the very gods themselves, then considered a sin?" the crowd cannot accept the convict's speech. Stones fly from every direction of the colosseum towards the centre - the hanging ground. Everyone inside scrambles to the walls to avoid being stoned, save two - the priest, protected by the guards and their shields, and the convict, on the stands with rope bound around his neck.
"Convict! Know your place!" the priest shouts. "You stand here, a convict of the court, subject to the law of the Kingdom and held accountable to the masses. Of what right do you dare declare yourself a messenger of the wrath of the very gods that allowed our late King to assume his position as King Himself?"
"If I stand here as a convict," the convict declares, "then it is by my own conviction that I do so!" Amidst the hurling of stones and the roaring of voices, the convict's one statement rings throughout the entire colosseum.
"Madman! Sinner! I hereby declare this convict as a sinner of the gravest sins and sentence him to death!" the priest yells. He turns to the executioner immediately. "Executioner! Put this man to death immediately!" the crowd roars. The time has finally come. The executioner fumbles and quickly runs over to the lever. The convict continues to stare the priest in the eyes, seeing into his self, seeing the priest for what he really was. The priest immediately turns his head away.
"Why judge, O priest?! Why sentence?! Why curse and foul my name?! We are all going to die at some time, O Kingdom!" the convict shouts at the top of his lungs. His single voice overpowers the audience for an instant, but is immediately drowned out. The priest sees his lips move again. He cannot hear his words, only decipher its meaning by reading it. The crowd will not stop for silence this time.
"Just that I intend to deserve it." the executioner pulls the lever. The convict falls, hung on the noose of the rope, silent and motionless.
---------------------------------
Addendum: Man, I just realized this is so much like a carbon copy of another story I wrote last time.
Showing posts with label Tales. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tales. Show all posts
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Saturday, October 04, 2008
A Story, A Riddle, A Tragedy.
The children gathered around the storyteller around the park bench - a kind-hearted man amongst a crowd of impressionable minds. The murmers and chatters of friends showing each other new toys their parents got for them, bugs they caught, flowers they picked, or the like. Some looked at the storyteller, his eyes following the words he wrote into a small pocket book. Some wondered what those words contained. His next story? The message to life? A great treasure beyond the horizon?
The light slap of pages closing upon each other, and the crowd instinctively turns to the leader, putting the pocket-book back where it belongs and ready to speak to the children.
"What story are you going to tell us today, Mr. Storyteller?" and the storyteller smiled to the children, who in turn smiled back to him.
"Today's a special day, kids. I'm going to tell more than just a story. Today's going to be... a riddle." a few kids looked around, confused, asking their friends what a 'riddle' was. Some stared blankly at the storyteller. But for the most of it, a general air of excitement lay in the air. Everyone wanted to hear a bit more about this 'riddle' of his.
And the storyteller began.
"There was once an old man who had close to everything. Everything he wanted, he had." The children gasped.
"Did he have a big house?" "Did he have lots of money?" "Did he have a huge swimming pool?" "Did he have his own pirate ship?" "Did he have a space station?" "Does he own the Empire State Building?"
"Well, maybe not the Empire State Building, but he still had close to everything, kids. Money, health, status, lots of cool stuff, you name it, he'll have most of it." the storyteller waited for the awe to die down a little before he continued.
"The maids always found him to be a cheerful man, smiling each and every day, and the gardeners always talked about how the flowers in his garden bloomed more beautifully than anywhere else, as if his happiness had spread over to them. His children, of course, were glad for their father - grandfather for some, of course - who wouldn't, if their father or grandfather were such a happy person?" the children seemed happy too, as if the old man's happiness had spread from the storyteller onto them as well.
"The old man's friends always came over and had a cup of tea every once in a while. They would talk for hours over various things, but the conversations would always end with the old man's hearty laughter and the same reply: Come again sometime soon, won't ya, old pal? And every now and then they would come over for a good chat or two." the kids listened in silence, half unable to comprehend what it would be like and half thinking to themselves how nice it was.
One of the children on the right raised his hands. "Mr. Storyteller!"
The storyteller looked at him and smiled. "Yes?"
"Do his friends smile a lot too?"
"Of course! You would smile too if you had such a wonderful friend at such an age, my boy." and the storyteller continued his story.
"But one day, the gardeners noticed that on the old man's morning walks throughout the garden he was no longer as lively as he usually was. The maids realized that the old man no longer had the radiant smile he used to bear had disappeared. And his friends felt that the old man no longer had his hearty laughter when talking to them, and his usual ending statement was longer as energetic as usual."
Another child, feeling concerned for the old man, raised up his hand. "What happened, Mr. Storyteller?" the kids looked up at the storyteller with expectant eyes, as if he were about to enlighten them immediately.
"Who knows? But the old man's grandchildren were worried for him. So one of them went up to the old man and asked him this: 'Old man, is there something that you're troubled by?' and the old man said back to them, 'Yes, my dears, I am troubled by something.'"
"What was he troubled by, Mr. Storyteller?" some kids were more eager than the storyteller had originally expected, and had to be hushed down lightly. He signalled to a pair of kids who were making more noise than usual to keep quiet, and continued his story.
"But the old man never told the kids what he was troubled by, so the kids were confused. What could the old man be troubled by? Was it that autumn was coming and the flowers would wilt? Was it that the house was no longer as clean as it was before? Was it that a friend of his had passed away? It could not have been any - he wasn't the kind to grow that sad over autumn, the house was as clean as ever, and the kids knew every friend of their grandfather and would've known immediately if any of them had moved on." the kids looked befuddled now. What could have kept the old man so troubled?
The storyteller smiled and continued. "So the children continued guessing as to what could have made the old man feel so sad. But no one ever came up with a good answer. so they decided to ask their parents instead. After all, the adults should know better, said the oldest of the kids, and the rest of his siblings and cousins followed. And the adults wondered what was wrong that could have made the old man feel so sad. They went to the old man, and asked, 'father, is there something wrong?', hoping he would give a different reply than with the children. But the old man said to them, 'No, my dears, there is nothing wrong.' Now both the children and the adults were confused. How could he be troubled if there were nothing wrong?" the kids looked just as troubled as the old man's grandchildren would have been, the storyteller thought to himself, and continued.
"The parents were better than their children, of course. They came up with a hypothesis as to why the old man was feeling so down." And now a few kids were raising their hands.
"Mr. Storyteller, what's a hypothesis?" Some others nodded in agreement, wanting to find out the meaning of that. The storyteller laughed, realizing his mistake.
"Haha, I'm sorry, everyone. It's kind of like guessing. Take it that way." a few hands went down, but a good number still had their hands up.
"So what was it that they guessed, Mr. Storyteller?"
"Is this the riddle, Mr. Storyteller?"
"Why was the old man so sad, Mr. Storyteller?"
"Well, I'll be getting to all of that soon, so sit back and relax." and after seeing the hands go down one by one, the storyteller continued with the story.
"The first thing they thought was, maybe it wasn't that the old man had something wrong in his life, but maybe it was that he was missing something from his life! It wasn't a problem of what he had that was bad, it was a problem of what he didn't have!" ...and a short pause to calm the gasps of the children who realized the genius in the parent's revelation.
"So the grandchildren's parents went to the old man and asked him, 'father, is there something missing in your life?' To which the old man replied, 'Yes there is, my dears'. And the parents knew they were on the right track. He was lacking something after all!" everyone looked excited. was the old man going to be happy once they find what he was missing in his life?
"But the problem only began from there. What could it have been that the old man was lacking? The parents were all confused as well. What do you kids think?"
"Maybe he didn't have enough money, Mr. Storyteller!" The storyteller just smiled back at him.
"And that was what one of the parents thought. But what could they have possibly done in that case? They were still stumped, so they thought to themselves: Perhaps there might be something else which was missing from his life." and another answer came from the audience.
"Maybe he didn't have enough friends, Mr. Storyteller!"
"And that was what another one of the parents thought. Maybe the old man wanted to have all his friends together instead of just talking to one or two of them. Maybe he wanted to see all his old friends, each and every single one of them. And then one of the grandchildren came up with a brilliant idea." the kids started to move closer, wanting to hear about the geniosity of the grandchild. The storyteller waited for a moment.
"Why not hold the largest, grandest, most majestic, most extravagant, most amazing and wonderful, most magnificent party for the old man? His birthday was coming up, and they had the money to pull off such a huge event. So on that day, the old man's children went and looked for every single person who was a friend of the old man. They brought forth the best food, the best drinks, and got the entire mansion pristine clean to the utmost degree for this very event."
One of the kids could barely control his excitement. "How was it, Mr. Storyteller? Was he happy in the end?"
"That comes soon, kid. The entire mansion was a wonderful place to be that night; after all, it was the biggest banquet in the whole town! The old man saw every friend of his come along just to celebrate his birthday. And he smiled. Everyone was happy, especially the children. The old man had finally smiled after a long time." the kids seemed happy, the storyteller thought to himself.
"But that night, after every guest had left the old man's mansion, one of the grandchildren heard the old man crying to himself at night. What went wrong? The child thought to himself. Did we make him sad by holding the party? Did we do something bad to him? Did something go wrong? What happened?" and the storyteller was sure every child there was thinking the exact same thing right then and there. He noticed that the children's faces seemed rather concerned, but he had to continue anyway.
"The child went into the old man's room and asked him directly. 'Grandpa, why are you crying? Did we do something wrong today?' and the old man smiled at the child, tears still flowing from his eyes."
"What did he say, Mr. Storyteller?"
"Well, the old man said back to the child, 'You didn't do anything wrong today, child. But as happy as I am today to see all my friends together, I realize even more that there is something that I no longer have.' The child was confused, of course. What was that something he didn't have? Was it money? Certainly not, he was as rich a man as many could only hope for. Was it friends? How could it be? Every last friend of his just came over to the mansion to celebrate today. Was it his health and well-being? He was well for someone his age, and he was pretty healthy anyway, the child thought. What do you think?" Silence from the crowd.
And no one figured out the riddle, the storyteller thought to himself, until someone raised her hand and asked.
"Mr. Storyteller, was love missing from his life?"
The storyteller chuckled to himself lightly, and replied "Perhaps it may be, lil' girl. Perhaps it may be. But the old man told the child to return to his room as he was going to sleep soon, and the child returned to his room, not understanding what it was that the old man was missing from his life." a slight murmur, before silence amongst the crowd. The storyteller waited for a moment of silence before he continued his story.
"The next day, the old man never woke up. The entire family was shocked to see him go so suddenly, especially after such a wonderful party. Everyone was in tears - the maids, the gardeners, the chefs, the butlers, the children, and the grandchildren. The child who had went into the old man's room the night before ran to the same room immediately, and in his tears wondered to himself what it was the old man was missing in his life right up till his last day." the children were resisting the urge to sob and cry, the storyteller noted. Perhaps I should wait? He thought. But the story must go on.
"Two days later, the funeral processing took place. The child stayed in his room while everyone went out for the wake - the funeral service, for those who don't know. And when the house was completely empty the child ran over to the old man's room again, and searched around. Perhaps there was a clue to what was missing, he thought, and searched high and low for anything that the old man left behind as a clue or a mark. And in the corner of the old man's treasured drawer the child found a piece of paper."
"What was on it, Mr. Storyteller? Tell us!" the storyteller waited for silence again before continuing.
"On that piece of paper were the following words:
I find myself with money, with friends, with welfare and health. Yet I find that with each passing day I have less and less of it to spare. Nothing I have can compare to the sadness I feel with each passing day for whatever I have left is slowly going away. I do not have much left" and many children raised up their hands.
"But what is it, Mr. Storyteller? I don't understand!" the rest nodded in unison.
"And that is the riddle to solve, everyone. The story has now come to a close." amidst complaints and queries the crowd slowly disappeared back as children returned back home after a long story.
In the empty, silent park, the storyteller took out his pocket-book again, and turned to the very front page. On that page lay a piece of yellowed, cracked piece of parchment with faded words on it. As the storyteller took out his pen he had a terrible cough, and covered his mouth so to make sure no one would notice. He looked at his right hand, now stained red, and stared at it for a while before he took his pen and wrote on the other side of the parchment.
"Neither do I."
-------------------------------------
That was surprisingly long and surprisingly painless to write.
The light slap of pages closing upon each other, and the crowd instinctively turns to the leader, putting the pocket-book back where it belongs and ready to speak to the children.
"What story are you going to tell us today, Mr. Storyteller?" and the storyteller smiled to the children, who in turn smiled back to him.
"Today's a special day, kids. I'm going to tell more than just a story. Today's going to be... a riddle." a few kids looked around, confused, asking their friends what a 'riddle' was. Some stared blankly at the storyteller. But for the most of it, a general air of excitement lay in the air. Everyone wanted to hear a bit more about this 'riddle' of his.
And the storyteller began.
"There was once an old man who had close to everything. Everything he wanted, he had." The children gasped.
"Did he have a big house?" "Did he have lots of money?" "Did he have a huge swimming pool?" "Did he have his own pirate ship?" "Did he have a space station?" "Does he own the Empire State Building?"
"Well, maybe not the Empire State Building, but he still had close to everything, kids. Money, health, status, lots of cool stuff, you name it, he'll have most of it." the storyteller waited for the awe to die down a little before he continued.
"The maids always found him to be a cheerful man, smiling each and every day, and the gardeners always talked about how the flowers in his garden bloomed more beautifully than anywhere else, as if his happiness had spread over to them. His children, of course, were glad for their father - grandfather for some, of course - who wouldn't, if their father or grandfather were such a happy person?" the children seemed happy too, as if the old man's happiness had spread from the storyteller onto them as well.
"The old man's friends always came over and had a cup of tea every once in a while. They would talk for hours over various things, but the conversations would always end with the old man's hearty laughter and the same reply: Come again sometime soon, won't ya, old pal? And every now and then they would come over for a good chat or two." the kids listened in silence, half unable to comprehend what it would be like and half thinking to themselves how nice it was.
One of the children on the right raised his hands. "Mr. Storyteller!"
The storyteller looked at him and smiled. "Yes?"
"Do his friends smile a lot too?"
"Of course! You would smile too if you had such a wonderful friend at such an age, my boy." and the storyteller continued his story.
"But one day, the gardeners noticed that on the old man's morning walks throughout the garden he was no longer as lively as he usually was. The maids realized that the old man no longer had the radiant smile he used to bear had disappeared. And his friends felt that the old man no longer had his hearty laughter when talking to them, and his usual ending statement was longer as energetic as usual."
Another child, feeling concerned for the old man, raised up his hand. "What happened, Mr. Storyteller?" the kids looked up at the storyteller with expectant eyes, as if he were about to enlighten them immediately.
"Who knows? But the old man's grandchildren were worried for him. So one of them went up to the old man and asked him this: 'Old man, is there something that you're troubled by?' and the old man said back to them, 'Yes, my dears, I am troubled by something.'"
"What was he troubled by, Mr. Storyteller?" some kids were more eager than the storyteller had originally expected, and had to be hushed down lightly. He signalled to a pair of kids who were making more noise than usual to keep quiet, and continued his story.
"But the old man never told the kids what he was troubled by, so the kids were confused. What could the old man be troubled by? Was it that autumn was coming and the flowers would wilt? Was it that the house was no longer as clean as it was before? Was it that a friend of his had passed away? It could not have been any - he wasn't the kind to grow that sad over autumn, the house was as clean as ever, and the kids knew every friend of their grandfather and would've known immediately if any of them had moved on." the kids looked befuddled now. What could have kept the old man so troubled?
The storyteller smiled and continued. "So the children continued guessing as to what could have made the old man feel so sad. But no one ever came up with a good answer. so they decided to ask their parents instead. After all, the adults should know better, said the oldest of the kids, and the rest of his siblings and cousins followed. And the adults wondered what was wrong that could have made the old man feel so sad. They went to the old man, and asked, 'father, is there something wrong?', hoping he would give a different reply than with the children. But the old man said to them, 'No, my dears, there is nothing wrong.' Now both the children and the adults were confused. How could he be troubled if there were nothing wrong?" the kids looked just as troubled as the old man's grandchildren would have been, the storyteller thought to himself, and continued.
"The parents were better than their children, of course. They came up with a hypothesis as to why the old man was feeling so down." And now a few kids were raising their hands.
"Mr. Storyteller, what's a hypothesis?" Some others nodded in agreement, wanting to find out the meaning of that. The storyteller laughed, realizing his mistake.
"Haha, I'm sorry, everyone. It's kind of like guessing. Take it that way." a few hands went down, but a good number still had their hands up.
"So what was it that they guessed, Mr. Storyteller?"
"Is this the riddle, Mr. Storyteller?"
"Why was the old man so sad, Mr. Storyteller?"
"Well, I'll be getting to all of that soon, so sit back and relax." and after seeing the hands go down one by one, the storyteller continued with the story.
"The first thing they thought was, maybe it wasn't that the old man had something wrong in his life, but maybe it was that he was missing something from his life! It wasn't a problem of what he had that was bad, it was a problem of what he didn't have!" ...and a short pause to calm the gasps of the children who realized the genius in the parent's revelation.
"So the grandchildren's parents went to the old man and asked him, 'father, is there something missing in your life?' To which the old man replied, 'Yes there is, my dears'. And the parents knew they were on the right track. He was lacking something after all!" everyone looked excited. was the old man going to be happy once they find what he was missing in his life?
"But the problem only began from there. What could it have been that the old man was lacking? The parents were all confused as well. What do you kids think?"
"Maybe he didn't have enough money, Mr. Storyteller!" The storyteller just smiled back at him.
"And that was what one of the parents thought. But what could they have possibly done in that case? They were still stumped, so they thought to themselves: Perhaps there might be something else which was missing from his life." and another answer came from the audience.
"Maybe he didn't have enough friends, Mr. Storyteller!"
"And that was what another one of the parents thought. Maybe the old man wanted to have all his friends together instead of just talking to one or two of them. Maybe he wanted to see all his old friends, each and every single one of them. And then one of the grandchildren came up with a brilliant idea." the kids started to move closer, wanting to hear about the geniosity of the grandchild. The storyteller waited for a moment.
"Why not hold the largest, grandest, most majestic, most extravagant, most amazing and wonderful, most magnificent party for the old man? His birthday was coming up, and they had the money to pull off such a huge event. So on that day, the old man's children went and looked for every single person who was a friend of the old man. They brought forth the best food, the best drinks, and got the entire mansion pristine clean to the utmost degree for this very event."
One of the kids could barely control his excitement. "How was it, Mr. Storyteller? Was he happy in the end?"
"That comes soon, kid. The entire mansion was a wonderful place to be that night; after all, it was the biggest banquet in the whole town! The old man saw every friend of his come along just to celebrate his birthday. And he smiled. Everyone was happy, especially the children. The old man had finally smiled after a long time." the kids seemed happy, the storyteller thought to himself.
"But that night, after every guest had left the old man's mansion, one of the grandchildren heard the old man crying to himself at night. What went wrong? The child thought to himself. Did we make him sad by holding the party? Did we do something bad to him? Did something go wrong? What happened?" and the storyteller was sure every child there was thinking the exact same thing right then and there. He noticed that the children's faces seemed rather concerned, but he had to continue anyway.
"The child went into the old man's room and asked him directly. 'Grandpa, why are you crying? Did we do something wrong today?' and the old man smiled at the child, tears still flowing from his eyes."
"What did he say, Mr. Storyteller?"
"Well, the old man said back to the child, 'You didn't do anything wrong today, child. But as happy as I am today to see all my friends together, I realize even more that there is something that I no longer have.' The child was confused, of course. What was that something he didn't have? Was it money? Certainly not, he was as rich a man as many could only hope for. Was it friends? How could it be? Every last friend of his just came over to the mansion to celebrate today. Was it his health and well-being? He was well for someone his age, and he was pretty healthy anyway, the child thought. What do you think?" Silence from the crowd.
And no one figured out the riddle, the storyteller thought to himself, until someone raised her hand and asked.
"Mr. Storyteller, was love missing from his life?"
The storyteller chuckled to himself lightly, and replied "Perhaps it may be, lil' girl. Perhaps it may be. But the old man told the child to return to his room as he was going to sleep soon, and the child returned to his room, not understanding what it was that the old man was missing from his life." a slight murmur, before silence amongst the crowd. The storyteller waited for a moment of silence before he continued his story.
"The next day, the old man never woke up. The entire family was shocked to see him go so suddenly, especially after such a wonderful party. Everyone was in tears - the maids, the gardeners, the chefs, the butlers, the children, and the grandchildren. The child who had went into the old man's room the night before ran to the same room immediately, and in his tears wondered to himself what it was the old man was missing in his life right up till his last day." the children were resisting the urge to sob and cry, the storyteller noted. Perhaps I should wait? He thought. But the story must go on.
"Two days later, the funeral processing took place. The child stayed in his room while everyone went out for the wake - the funeral service, for those who don't know. And when the house was completely empty the child ran over to the old man's room again, and searched around. Perhaps there was a clue to what was missing, he thought, and searched high and low for anything that the old man left behind as a clue or a mark. And in the corner of the old man's treasured drawer the child found a piece of paper."
"What was on it, Mr. Storyteller? Tell us!" the storyteller waited for silence again before continuing.
"On that piece of paper were the following words:
I find myself with money, with friends, with welfare and health. Yet I find that with each passing day I have less and less of it to spare. Nothing I have can compare to the sadness I feel with each passing day for whatever I have left is slowly going away. I do not have much left" and many children raised up their hands.
"But what is it, Mr. Storyteller? I don't understand!" the rest nodded in unison.
"And that is the riddle to solve, everyone. The story has now come to a close." amidst complaints and queries the crowd slowly disappeared back as children returned back home after a long story.
In the empty, silent park, the storyteller took out his pocket-book again, and turned to the very front page. On that page lay a piece of yellowed, cracked piece of parchment with faded words on it. As the storyteller took out his pen he had a terrible cough, and covered his mouth so to make sure no one would notice. He looked at his right hand, now stained red, and stared at it for a while before he took his pen and wrote on the other side of the parchment.
"Neither do I."
-------------------------------------
That was surprisingly long and surprisingly painless to write.
Saturday, September 06, 2008
Imperator Rex, The First Tale
This is the first tale of Imperator Rex. The second tale is in the blogpost below this.
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There was once a child of the name Imperator Rex. He was in all senses of the word a genius – an artist, a scholar, and a warrior. Pen, sword, flute; all instruments subject to his mastery.
Not to mean that he was all of these at once, of course. Yet there bore potentiality and a future wherever he was headed or whatever he would become. It was the kind of person he was. A swordsman more skilled than his peers, a student and disciple of the sages, and performer loved by the masses. Friends and acquaintances speculated as to the kind of future that he would move towards. Some said the professor and philosopher, some said the performer and singer (Not many, after all, played their voices and instruments as well as he) and some said the commander and knight. Anyone who ever asked him about the future and what he thought of it got a simple reply. “Who knows what the future holds? I believe whatever I do, I’ll do well in anyway.” A true remark in both sense of the word.
It wasn’t that long, however, before it would become obvious as to what would become of his future. The empire had been caught up in a series of unfortunate events, and was now bracing itself for wartime. Rex found himself conscripted for the war alongside many of the youths who were to take part in war defending the nation they were born in. Rex was quickly recognized as a person who was capable of handling a squad of his own, and soon it progressed from squad to phalanx, from phalanx to legion. And finally, in the mere span of 2 years, Rex was deemed to be more capable than anyone when it came to the massive task of taking care of the entire army. And so he was.
In his time in war, he realized that his performances were capable of cheering people up and raising morale – after all, who gets to hear any music in war save the war cries and the rhythmic beat and cling of shield upon sword? At this time he wrote poetry as well, and his writing (any that made it back to the empire) brought understanding and enlightenment to whoever managed to read them. Yet on the battlefield his talent for his sword, his ability to assess any situation on a macroscopic and microscopic level, and his charisma and innate leadership were really what shone through, and as it continued to shine upon him his other talents were slowly neglected. There was no place for the leader of a legion to play a flute or write his mind, merely a place to give a speech to inspire his man to continue onwards.
As leader of the army, though, Rex realized for the first time the true grasp of power he could have had with the talents he bore. Beyond mere consolance and inspiration for a small group of people, he was now working on a gigantic scale that no man could have possibly dreamed of prior. And with the realization that he was capable of truly great things came the expectation that one should be accomplishing such great things if he were capable of it, and finally, the desire to do such truly great things. And so he set out to conquer the lands. Before he set off on his journey and quest, though, he was entrusted with another duty. It came in the form of a book that was given to him by his parents.
In it, the following words were written:
"Let history mark your triumphs,
Let battles mark your trials;
But let this book remember,
Your Own Self - What You Are."
An otherwise empty book. So Imperator Rex set forth on his journey to conquer the lands.
Battles and wars were easily won, and armies of enemy empires found their numbers whittled to an insignificant crowd against the mighty legions of Imperator Rex.
At the eve before each battle he would look at the book and consider writing in his feelings on the war ahead, but advisors and generals always sought his word on upcoming battles, and his thoughts were eternally focused on the future; never on the present.
At the end of each battle came the euphoria, the joy, and the celebrations of a victory won, and Rex found himself drunk on victory – unable to think until the next day where he was sober, and then he would have other affairs to concern himself in.
A day came when imperator Rex had finally conquered the lands.
As he surveyed the lands which he had conquered, many thoughts raced through his mind, but one took precedence.
What now?
And the first thought was to begin and complete that book.
And so while the generals and warriors went around making merry, Imperator Rex sat in his room, deep in thought, considering as to the contents of his book, particularly the question of what he was. And after a while he concluded that he was Imperator Rex – The talented man; the scholar, warrior and musician. The man who rose to glory in war and proceeded to conquer the lands.
So Rex began to write. Yet words never found their way through the pen. As if the world of words had completely forsaken him, then pen never even so much as touched the surface of the book. Rex was confused. He was definitely capable of this – he’d done it in the past, he would be able to do it now. But as the hours went by Rex was becoming more and more aware that perhaps he was losing touch. Then a thought occurred in his head.
Immediately, Rex tried to hum one of the many familiar melodies that he had always loved to sing while in the city. Barely audible. He tried to sing, soft as possible to make sure no one outside knew about it. Completely terrible. Rex was flustered. He sang louder. It was not the voice of angels; it was the war cry of an almighty General.
He suddenly realized something was terribly wrong. He pondered and pondered, pacing around the room, and when he saw the book he immediately closed it and stored it amongst the chests of items he had brought.
That day, Rex realized that the path he had chosen had gone beyond the turning point, that the crossroads to the futures was no longer in sight. That in walking straight down the path of the destructor did he forget what it had been like to be a creator.
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I would have kept this in writing but it seems that the first part is necessary in order to understand the third. If I manage to write it out.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Imperator Rex, the Second Tale
An acquaintance at school once commented that the life I had led seemed so under my control. Not everyone knew what they were good at, not everyone knew what they liked, not everyone knew what they were passionate about.
I wonder.
-----------------------------------------------------------
There was once a man who had conquered it all. A man who had everything within his grasp. Power, land, respect. The masses knew him as Imperator Rex.
Yet no man is without his incapabilities. And though it was debatable as to whether it could have been considered a weakness of Rex or not, there was something he found himself unable to do.
It was a book entrusted to him by his parents before he set off to conquer the lands. In that book, he was instructed to write down the trials and triumphs of his journey. And for his skill in conquering, he was terrible at recording.
He pondered for long nights as to what caused him to be unable to do this, of course. What could keep him from being able to do something as simple as writing? A lack of talent? No; he had been skilled at it before wartime. A lack of content? No; no conqueror had ever found himself lacking in stories to tell to the masses, and never will any find himself lacking in epics to recite if his parents were the audience. A lack of audience? Certainly not; history itself and the men of the future were to be the readers and analysts of his life!
He began to justify his incapability. A man who has so much to conquer could not possibly have time to focus and write when he has to care about the war tomorrow. And he was right. So he continued to conquer more and more.
Till one day he had nothing more to conquer, and as he surveyed the lands he realized that soon he would be on his way back to the capital to oversee and manage all the lands that he had taken control of. Slowly it began to dawn on him that it would soon become a necessity to complete writing at least something of value within the book.
Try and try again, he found that he was incapable of it. Why? He wondered. Why. And he found no answer. Rex asked his advisers, and they told him to drink a bit before he wrote, to relax and get into the mood. Yet as he drank he found his mind drifting further and further away from the pen, and found himself being less able to think, let alone write. He asked the scholars who followed to chronicle the war, and they told him to think about important moments during the war and write them down. Yet he found little to write about in such the rigid form of writing. Then he asked the warriors, who lamented that they too were incapable of such deeds, referring Imperator Rex instead to the scholars and advisers.
At nighttime, Rex found the son of one of his generals drawing on the sand, and was intrigued.
"Young one, what is that you draw on the sand?"
"I'm afraid, Your Excellency, that it is not something that even you can comprehend." Rex was amused, what with a child showing such innocent disrespect.
"And why would that be? I am king of the lands, young one. What could I not comprehend?"
The boy smiled at the king. "You cannot understand my mind, Your Excellency. For it is mine and mine alone." The king could not understand.
"What does your mind have to do with the drawings of the sand?" and the boy smiled again.
"The drawings are not of the sand, Your Excellency. They are of my world, and of my mind. Though I may be a child, Your Excellency, I can tell that you will not be able to understand my world. Simply because you are not like me." and Rex was even more intrigued. Perhaps the child could solve his mystery.
"And what is this that you are unlike the king of the lands in?" and the boy smiled at the sand.
"You are not a creator, my lord."
I wonder.
-----------------------------------------------------------
There was once a man who had conquered it all. A man who had everything within his grasp. Power, land, respect. The masses knew him as Imperator Rex.
Yet no man is without his incapabilities. And though it was debatable as to whether it could have been considered a weakness of Rex or not, there was something he found himself unable to do.
It was a book entrusted to him by his parents before he set off to conquer the lands. In that book, he was instructed to write down the trials and triumphs of his journey. And for his skill in conquering, he was terrible at recording.
He pondered for long nights as to what caused him to be unable to do this, of course. What could keep him from being able to do something as simple as writing? A lack of talent? No; he had been skilled at it before wartime. A lack of content? No; no conqueror had ever found himself lacking in stories to tell to the masses, and never will any find himself lacking in epics to recite if his parents were the audience. A lack of audience? Certainly not; history itself and the men of the future were to be the readers and analysts of his life!
He began to justify his incapability. A man who has so much to conquer could not possibly have time to focus and write when he has to care about the war tomorrow. And he was right. So he continued to conquer more and more.
Till one day he had nothing more to conquer, and as he surveyed the lands he realized that soon he would be on his way back to the capital to oversee and manage all the lands that he had taken control of. Slowly it began to dawn on him that it would soon become a necessity to complete writing at least something of value within the book.
Try and try again, he found that he was incapable of it. Why? He wondered. Why. And he found no answer. Rex asked his advisers, and they told him to drink a bit before he wrote, to relax and get into the mood. Yet as he drank he found his mind drifting further and further away from the pen, and found himself being less able to think, let alone write. He asked the scholars who followed to chronicle the war, and they told him to think about important moments during the war and write them down. Yet he found little to write about in such the rigid form of writing. Then he asked the warriors, who lamented that they too were incapable of such deeds, referring Imperator Rex instead to the scholars and advisers.
At nighttime, Rex found the son of one of his generals drawing on the sand, and was intrigued.
"Young one, what is that you draw on the sand?"
"I'm afraid, Your Excellency, that it is not something that even you can comprehend." Rex was amused, what with a child showing such innocent disrespect.
"And why would that be? I am king of the lands, young one. What could I not comprehend?"
The boy smiled at the king. "You cannot understand my mind, Your Excellency. For it is mine and mine alone." The king could not understand.
"What does your mind have to do with the drawings of the sand?" and the boy smiled again.
"The drawings are not of the sand, Your Excellency. They are of my world, and of my mind. Though I may be a child, Your Excellency, I can tell that you will not be able to understand my world. Simply because you are not like me." and Rex was even more intrigued. Perhaps the child could solve his mystery.
"And what is this that you are unlike the king of the lands in?" and the boy smiled at the sand.
"You are not a creator, my lord."
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
The sacrifice of focus
"You're completely useless, you trash! 'Please wait a little more'? How many times have you said those words since you were born? Society is not your mother. It will not continue to wait for you trash while you try and decide. Just go off and equivocate for the rest of your lives. You will continue to lose all your valuable opportunities."
...
"Your pleas for mercy are off the mark. You give up? That's not going to work when you play for keeps, you fools. You're all sick."
"Sick?"
"Their sickness is how they can never get serious, no matter what their circumstances may be. It's a match with lives on the line. We've already told them what will happen if they lose, and yet they still think they can just give up. In other words, they're not serious. Even on the bridge where they face certain death, they talk nonsense because they can't become serious! It's nothing but a fictional match to them.
Normally, those people would never wake up from their fantasy worlds. They live meaningless lives. They waste their precious days over nothing. No matter how old they get, they'll continue to say... 'My real life hasn't started yet.' 'The real me is still asleep, so that's why my life is such garbage.' They continue to tell themselves that. They continue. And they age. Then die. And on their deathbeds, they will finally realize. The life they lived was the real thing.
People don't live provisional lives, nor do they die provisional deaths. That's a simple fact! The problem...
...is whether they realize that simple fact."
(The Triad fansubs)
-----------------------------------
The trader stared his customer in the face. A man of youthful pride, a glimmer of idealism in his eyes, a bright future ahead of him. He took out a cigar and lit it.
"So, young one. What brings you here?"
The young'un smiled with a bright beam. "You're the man who can grant wishes to anyone, right? I've heard about you. Magic, they call it. Would it work on me? I wonder. I sure hope so."
"Is it a dream you have, young one?" The trader took out a pencil and paper, then continued to stare into the youth's eyes; the beauty of idealism in it.
"Of course, mister. Don't we all have them? Big, small, beautiful or ugly, everyone has their own unique dream that they want to achieve." The trader wrote a point or two down on his paper, making sure the youth couldn't tell what he was writing exactly.
"Beautiful things indeed, these dreams. What are they to you?" The young man seemed to be getting impatient, but the trader ignored that, throwing the cigar to a corner at the back before staring the youth in the eye again.
"The backbone of progress, mister. That it be both the will of Cinderella and the oath of America is testament to its strength. Driving me on to tomorrow, mister - that's what I feel it does. The light at the end of the tunnel without which I would be lost in darkness forever." The world around the two continued to move - the marketplace lively as ever - yet between the two was silence save the sound of pencil grinding against paper.
"Fitting words, that they should come from the mouth of a youth like you too." He scribbled a few more lines and smiled, half mockingly. This can go either way. "What do you propose you would do to grasp such a dream within your hands, then?"
"To go till the end, I say! To scale the heights of heavens; to brave the depths of hell; to go where East meets West and where the fire craves the ice. To suffer in melodious silence and etch a mark in eternity of it!"
The trader lit another cigar and blew the smoke in the youth's face.
"So, youth, that's what you're going to do, eh." Another puff of smoke. "Well I'll tell ya something, kid. Whatcha call the thing that keeps ya going again?"
"Dreams?" the youth looked somewhat confused.
"No, the other one. Firmness. Determination. Starts with R or something."
"Resolve?"
"Yea, that's the one. Whatcha think of it?"
"I don't get what you mean, Mister."
"Then I'll teach you, young 'un. To survive in the world you need food, water and shelter. But there're three things in the world you need to progress. Any ideas?"
"Dreams? Resolve? And..."
"Wisdom's the third, with good reason. I'll ask ya another thing. You called me the man who can grant wishes to anyone. But what am I fundamentally?"
"...a trader? Merchant?"
"Nah, lad. I ain't gonna be that high to ya, but if you want to think of it that way I guess you could say that. Tell me then. What was it that you would do for your dreams again?"
"I'd hate to repeat myself, mister. To the end of the world suffice."
"Then I must say, my lad, that you have no resolve."
The youth was immediately appalled. "Excuse me sir, I do believe that's a rather unjust statement to make."
"Yet it is the truest of truths. Why are you here? To see me. Why? Because I'm a trader. Why? Because apparently I can grant wishes to anyone. Why? Because you can't grant them yourself. There is something about you, lad, that tells me all you have are dreams. There's no resolve, there's no wisdom." The youth was shocked for a moment, and the trader noticed the small tremblings between his fingers.
"Have you ever thought about going to the ends of the world? Have you ever thought about your weary feet? Have you ever thought about the thirst, the hunger, the loneliness? Have you ever thought about how you are going to remotely come close to doing the things you say? Have you ever thought about doing something along with saying it?"
A shot of silence - then a sigh, and a puff of smoke. "Guess not, huh. You're a desperate person, you know that? Coming to a trader to get a dream true. Escaping from the effort that you'd have to put in otherwise. Guess what? I'm a trader - there's something called a transaction. There's never been a way out of this. A shortcut. Time won't wait for you to hope for your dreams to come your way on a silver platter, the light at the end of the tunnel is going to stay at the end of the tunnel. And you can't get to the end of that tunnel because you ain't got the resolve, lad. Resolve ain't something to be made with your head. It's something to be made with your attitude.
Stop looking for shortcuts and traders to give you your stuff; dreams can't be caught that easily. Stop talking about reaching the end of the tunnel without taking the step; resolve isn't created that easily. Stop thinking that as long as you get to the end taking shortcuts is fine; wisdom doesn't come that easily."
The trader stared the youth in the eye again. It seemed slightly darker - the glimmer that used to be there... a puff of smoke.
"Resolve, lad, has a meaning apart from determination. It means conclusion too - the ability to end what one starts, the endurance to walk the entire path, the patience to not drop halfway. The word resolve isn't the destination nor is it the journey; it's both. It's the thing that keeps one going in spite of all the sacrifices. Do you have something to head towards? That's a dream. Would you give up everything to head towards something? That's resolve. Would you stop when there is nothing that can push you forward anymore? That's wisdom. Without the latter two, you are but a drunkard thinking he is king."
"Dare you go sober and partake in the elections for kingship? In spite of everything? I suppose not. To do that would really show the lack of wisdom in you. Life will never wait for you, but it will not necessarily reward you for doing things you will never do again. Now go, and I pray that one day you will find something called resolve."
The youth never found resolve, but on that day he traded his dreams he had and received wisdom in exchange; a kind of wisdom that comes from years of experience and fear.
-----------------------------------
Any more and this will be too much of a self-criticism.
...
"Your pleas for mercy are off the mark. You give up? That's not going to work when you play for keeps, you fools. You're all sick."
"Sick?"
"Their sickness is how they can never get serious, no matter what their circumstances may be. It's a match with lives on the line. We've already told them what will happen if they lose, and yet they still think they can just give up. In other words, they're not serious. Even on the bridge where they face certain death, they talk nonsense because they can't become serious! It's nothing but a fictional match to them.
Normally, those people would never wake up from their fantasy worlds. They live meaningless lives. They waste their precious days over nothing. No matter how old they get, they'll continue to say... 'My real life hasn't started yet.' 'The real me is still asleep, so that's why my life is such garbage.' They continue to tell themselves that. They continue. And they age. Then die. And on their deathbeds, they will finally realize. The life they lived was the real thing.
People don't live provisional lives, nor do they die provisional deaths. That's a simple fact! The problem...
...is whether they realize that simple fact."
(The Triad fansubs)
-----------------------------------
The trader stared his customer in the face. A man of youthful pride, a glimmer of idealism in his eyes, a bright future ahead of him. He took out a cigar and lit it.
"So, young one. What brings you here?"
The young'un smiled with a bright beam. "You're the man who can grant wishes to anyone, right? I've heard about you. Magic, they call it. Would it work on me? I wonder. I sure hope so."
"Is it a dream you have, young one?" The trader took out a pencil and paper, then continued to stare into the youth's eyes; the beauty of idealism in it.
"Of course, mister. Don't we all have them? Big, small, beautiful or ugly, everyone has their own unique dream that they want to achieve." The trader wrote a point or two down on his paper, making sure the youth couldn't tell what he was writing exactly.
"Beautiful things indeed, these dreams. What are they to you?" The young man seemed to be getting impatient, but the trader ignored that, throwing the cigar to a corner at the back before staring the youth in the eye again.
"The backbone of progress, mister. That it be both the will of Cinderella and the oath of America is testament to its strength. Driving me on to tomorrow, mister - that's what I feel it does. The light at the end of the tunnel without which I would be lost in darkness forever." The world around the two continued to move - the marketplace lively as ever - yet between the two was silence save the sound of pencil grinding against paper.
"Fitting words, that they should come from the mouth of a youth like you too." He scribbled a few more lines and smiled, half mockingly. This can go either way. "What do you propose you would do to grasp such a dream within your hands, then?"
"To go till the end, I say! To scale the heights of heavens; to brave the depths of hell; to go where East meets West and where the fire craves the ice. To suffer in melodious silence and etch a mark in eternity of it!"
The trader lit another cigar and blew the smoke in the youth's face.
"So, youth, that's what you're going to do, eh." Another puff of smoke. "Well I'll tell ya something, kid. Whatcha call the thing that keeps ya going again?"
"Dreams?" the youth looked somewhat confused.
"No, the other one. Firmness. Determination. Starts with R or something."
"Resolve?"
"Yea, that's the one. Whatcha think of it?"
"I don't get what you mean, Mister."
"Then I'll teach you, young 'un. To survive in the world you need food, water and shelter. But there're three things in the world you need to progress. Any ideas?"
"Dreams? Resolve? And..."
"Wisdom's the third, with good reason. I'll ask ya another thing. You called me the man who can grant wishes to anyone. But what am I fundamentally?"
"...a trader? Merchant?"
"Nah, lad. I ain't gonna be that high to ya, but if you want to think of it that way I guess you could say that. Tell me then. What was it that you would do for your dreams again?"
"I'd hate to repeat myself, mister. To the end of the world suffice."
"Then I must say, my lad, that you have no resolve."
The youth was immediately appalled. "Excuse me sir, I do believe that's a rather unjust statement to make."
"Yet it is the truest of truths. Why are you here? To see me. Why? Because I'm a trader. Why? Because apparently I can grant wishes to anyone. Why? Because you can't grant them yourself. There is something about you, lad, that tells me all you have are dreams. There's no resolve, there's no wisdom." The youth was shocked for a moment, and the trader noticed the small tremblings between his fingers.
"Have you ever thought about going to the ends of the world? Have you ever thought about your weary feet? Have you ever thought about the thirst, the hunger, the loneliness? Have you ever thought about how you are going to remotely come close to doing the things you say? Have you ever thought about doing something along with saying it?"
A shot of silence - then a sigh, and a puff of smoke. "Guess not, huh. You're a desperate person, you know that? Coming to a trader to get a dream true. Escaping from the effort that you'd have to put in otherwise. Guess what? I'm a trader - there's something called a transaction. There's never been a way out of this. A shortcut. Time won't wait for you to hope for your dreams to come your way on a silver platter, the light at the end of the tunnel is going to stay at the end of the tunnel. And you can't get to the end of that tunnel because you ain't got the resolve, lad. Resolve ain't something to be made with your head. It's something to be made with your attitude.
Stop looking for shortcuts and traders to give you your stuff; dreams can't be caught that easily. Stop talking about reaching the end of the tunnel without taking the step; resolve isn't created that easily. Stop thinking that as long as you get to the end taking shortcuts is fine; wisdom doesn't come that easily."
The trader stared the youth in the eye again. It seemed slightly darker - the glimmer that used to be there... a puff of smoke.
"Resolve, lad, has a meaning apart from determination. It means conclusion too - the ability to end what one starts, the endurance to walk the entire path, the patience to not drop halfway. The word resolve isn't the destination nor is it the journey; it's both. It's the thing that keeps one going in spite of all the sacrifices. Do you have something to head towards? That's a dream. Would you give up everything to head towards something? That's resolve. Would you stop when there is nothing that can push you forward anymore? That's wisdom. Without the latter two, you are but a drunkard thinking he is king."
"Dare you go sober and partake in the elections for kingship? In spite of everything? I suppose not. To do that would really show the lack of wisdom in you. Life will never wait for you, but it will not necessarily reward you for doing things you will never do again. Now go, and I pray that one day you will find something called resolve."
The youth never found resolve, but on that day he traded his dreams he had and received wisdom in exchange; a kind of wisdom that comes from years of experience and fear.
-----------------------------------
Any more and this will be too much of a self-criticism.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
自殺事件
Another star to the heavens.
The union workers stare in awe and silence. One speaks.
"Y'know how they say there're as many stars in Heaven as there're people on Earth?"
"What of it?" Another replies, turning his head towards the questioner. The rest continue to stare up.
"Which one do you think he is? ..." And both stared up again. "..., see the one up there? The one that shines brightly in flickers and glimmers, then falling to darkness each time? Kind of like him, isn't it?"
Eerie silence.
The questioner spoke again. "...I'm sorry. I know he was in a different branch and all. But don't you think about it? When will the skies be rich with sparkles and there be only a single man on Earth to appreciate it? What if it's me? What if all of you are gone? What would it feel like? In fact, what does it feel like to die? Why'd he do it? Did he have a good reason? Was it impulsive? Was he trying to send a strong message?"
Eerie silence.
"Everytime I think of it I stare up and I see that star right there, by itself, flickering brightly and lonesomely. And I just start thinking about him. Why? I mean, he's just a stranger in another branch, isn't it?" He looked left and right. Everyone else continues to stare up.
"...It's just that all he's done is leave us with more questions than answers; as if we didn't already have enough to begin with! And all we can do is..."
"Speculate?" The questioner turned his head, and found himself staring eye to eye with one of the other workers.
"Huh?"
"Speculate. That was what you were going to say, right?" And he turned back up to stare at the stars.
"Yeah, but..." The questioner hung his head down this time.
"Then it's best to do nothing, fellow mate." The questioner stared at him. He was still staring up.
"Wha?"
"We bear no part in this. We do not speculate, it is disrespectful to the dead. His choice is his to be, our opinions are ours to be; but our judgment of him must never come to be. We do not ask the dead to speak, the dead tell no tales. We do not seek answers from the dead, we will find too much in the truth to take."
The questioner continued to stare. "But aren't you..."
"Curious? It no longer matters. I treat knowing the answer as a mere prize and award for my curiosity when he has sacrificed his life over it. He is one of us still, fellow mate, and it best be in your interests to keep out of the lives of others. I'm sure it's in his interests too. All we do is to mourn."
And they all stared up at the sky to mourn in silence.
But even then,
Perhaps even silence is still one word too many.
The union workers stare in awe and silence. One speaks.
"Y'know how they say there're as many stars in Heaven as there're people on Earth?"
"What of it?" Another replies, turning his head towards the questioner. The rest continue to stare up.
"Which one do you think he is? ..." And both stared up again. "..., see the one up there? The one that shines brightly in flickers and glimmers, then falling to darkness each time? Kind of like him, isn't it?"
Eerie silence.
The questioner spoke again. "...I'm sorry. I know he was in a different branch and all. But don't you think about it? When will the skies be rich with sparkles and there be only a single man on Earth to appreciate it? What if it's me? What if all of you are gone? What would it feel like? In fact, what does it feel like to die? Why'd he do it? Did he have a good reason? Was it impulsive? Was he trying to send a strong message?"
Eerie silence.
"Everytime I think of it I stare up and I see that star right there, by itself, flickering brightly and lonesomely. And I just start thinking about him. Why? I mean, he's just a stranger in another branch, isn't it?" He looked left and right. Everyone else continues to stare up.
"...It's just that all he's done is leave us with more questions than answers; as if we didn't already have enough to begin with! And all we can do is..."
"Speculate?" The questioner turned his head, and found himself staring eye to eye with one of the other workers.
"Huh?"
"Speculate. That was what you were going to say, right?" And he turned back up to stare at the stars.
"Yeah, but..." The questioner hung his head down this time.
"Then it's best to do nothing, fellow mate." The questioner stared at him. He was still staring up.
"Wha?"
"We bear no part in this. We do not speculate, it is disrespectful to the dead. His choice is his to be, our opinions are ours to be; but our judgment of him must never come to be. We do not ask the dead to speak, the dead tell no tales. We do not seek answers from the dead, we will find too much in the truth to take."
The questioner continued to stare. "But aren't you..."
"Curious? It no longer matters. I treat knowing the answer as a mere prize and award for my curiosity when he has sacrificed his life over it. He is one of us still, fellow mate, and it best be in your interests to keep out of the lives of others. I'm sure it's in his interests too. All we do is to mourn."
And they all stared up at the sky to mourn in silence.
But even then,
Perhaps even silence is still one word too many.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
朋友
还有伤 还有痛 还要走
还有我
----------------------------
Today has truly been a day. It has all the elements; of learning and resting, laughing and working, of listening and sleeping (for some, haha), of pleasant surprises and rude shocks, of welcomes and goodbyes, of meetings and departures.
A day like this will likely not come for a while.
What use is reflecting? I do not deny its benefits. But sometimes, the silent reflection's golden shine surpasses all.
----------------------------
A step along the pathway. How long has it been? He tried not to remember - it would seem just like yesterday that way. The drizzling rain barely keeps his memory drowned amongst the small ripples of sentimentality.
A bunch of kids running along the corridors. "Do not run on the corridor!" He heard the teacher shout, and turned his head instinctively. The kids continued to run down the corridor, no teacher in sight. Ah, he thought, things probably weren't the same.
He walked down the corridor again. How often was it that he would run along with the youngest of his classmates down, rushing for food? How often was it that he would stay in class along with the middle-yeared of his classmates, rushing for work? How often was it that he would slowly stroll down with the eldest of his classmates, down for a chat over a plate of rice and a cup of iced tea?
He stared into the classroom. He saw the teacher teaching, the children learning. He looked a slight bit longer. Second row, third from left. That was the place where he had spent so much time. Third row, next to the window. That was where he talked with a good 'mate of his throughout the early dawns of life.
A light chuckle. Front row, center child. Sleeping with the textbook in front of his face. It had to be. The guy I knew did that too, and he was front row center, the man thought.
The light rain continued to drizzle down. This was what January was like. Staying in class and ignoring both first and second assembly bells. If only it were lighter rain then instead of pouring torrents. This was perfect, yet somewhat at the wrong time.
He walked up the staircase. The staircase he walked up and down every single day for a good part of his life. Who knows how many steps up he had walked? How long has that uphill path been? How long did the stairway go up? When would it end? He cut himself mid-thought and just continued to walk up. Yes, that's what it was like. I never thought about such things then, he thought. Just keep walking like this.
The main assembly ground, now lightly tinted sepia. "Baris! Sedi-a!" A shuffling of feet. The national anthem. A gigantic bunch of students arranged by years and classes, the teachers few and far between in the masses, the loud (occasionally less-so) voice of the commander, the five stars and the golden wyvern rising, the multiracial pledges, the everyday devotions.
The rain drowned it all out again. Sepia fades into greyness. The clock tower says eleven, not seven half. He laughed a little inside; I must be thinking a bit too much again, he thought. He walked through the parade ground, faint raindrops on his back.
Each footstep the slightest bit heavier. Each smile the slightest bit fainter. Each heartbeat the slightest bit wearier. And slowly, a drop. A sob. A tear.
It really was the end of it all, wasn't it? All these years, moving up the path by oneself; through rain, through shine, through pains and tears - how? How? Another sob, another tear. He continued walking.
The newer area of school, he thought, and cut himself midthought. This isn't newer anymore. A bittersweet smile. And he walked up another flight of stairs.
The empty table. On one end, him, laptop in hand and patiently typing out everything silently albeit annoyedly. On the other end, her - no, them -
- no, us.
Standing together around, giving moral support. For whom? Her. For whom? Another one of 'us'. For what? For her tears, for her sadness, for her worries. Doing the best we could. Remembering this very place one year down the road and laughing heartily about how she cried that day, all of us. And here I am, he thought, remembering about this very place a few years down the road, and he smiled as he walked down the stairs.
The pond. The messages; the fishes. The juniors feeding them. The staircases up to class. Every step, another person would run past excitedly. Every step, he would turn his head towards an empty staircase. Every step, the sounds would be drowned out by the rain.
The man reached the canteen, and opened the glass doors. He moved instinctively to the sixth store (the fifth later on, but merely an issue of orientation). Closed. Ah well, he thought, and went to the first store and bought a cup of iced tea before sitting down on one of the tables. The rain was silenced by the barrier of glass, and the canteen was a silent place to him.
Suddenly, he looked up. Why? He didn't know - a mere feeling. How did he know? He didn't - there was no way of knowing. But yet it was. He saw them, and they saw him. And they sat together after being apart for the longest of times. And they talked about the times that they were together, and the times that they were apart. And each step along someone would be smiling.
Moving on was painful. It hurt. But he went on. Because he wasn't walking alone. They were with him. What were they? He thought for a while. Ah. They were friends. The days were gone, the times are long past. In their place, a cup of iced tea; a well-due conversation. A single statement.
"Hey there."
还有我
----------------------------
Today has truly been a day. It has all the elements; of learning and resting, laughing and working, of listening and sleeping (for some, haha), of pleasant surprises and rude shocks, of welcomes and goodbyes, of meetings and departures.
A day like this will likely not come for a while.
What use is reflecting? I do not deny its benefits. But sometimes, the silent reflection's golden shine surpasses all.
----------------------------
A step along the pathway. How long has it been? He tried not to remember - it would seem just like yesterday that way. The drizzling rain barely keeps his memory drowned amongst the small ripples of sentimentality.
A bunch of kids running along the corridors. "Do not run on the corridor!" He heard the teacher shout, and turned his head instinctively. The kids continued to run down the corridor, no teacher in sight. Ah, he thought, things probably weren't the same.
He walked down the corridor again. How often was it that he would run along with the youngest of his classmates down, rushing for food? How often was it that he would stay in class along with the middle-yeared of his classmates, rushing for work? How often was it that he would slowly stroll down with the eldest of his classmates, down for a chat over a plate of rice and a cup of iced tea?
He stared into the classroom. He saw the teacher teaching, the children learning. He looked a slight bit longer. Second row, third from left. That was the place where he had spent so much time. Third row, next to the window. That was where he talked with a good 'mate of his throughout the early dawns of life.
A light chuckle. Front row, center child. Sleeping with the textbook in front of his face. It had to be. The guy I knew did that too, and he was front row center, the man thought.
The light rain continued to drizzle down. This was what January was like. Staying in class and ignoring both first and second assembly bells. If only it were lighter rain then instead of pouring torrents. This was perfect, yet somewhat at the wrong time.
He walked up the staircase. The staircase he walked up and down every single day for a good part of his life. Who knows how many steps up he had walked? How long has that uphill path been? How long did the stairway go up? When would it end? He cut himself mid-thought and just continued to walk up. Yes, that's what it was like. I never thought about such things then, he thought. Just keep walking like this.
The main assembly ground, now lightly tinted sepia. "Baris! Sedi-a!" A shuffling of feet. The national anthem. A gigantic bunch of students arranged by years and classes, the teachers few and far between in the masses, the loud (occasionally less-so) voice of the commander, the five stars and the golden wyvern rising, the multiracial pledges, the everyday devotions.
The rain drowned it all out again. Sepia fades into greyness. The clock tower says eleven, not seven half. He laughed a little inside; I must be thinking a bit too much again, he thought. He walked through the parade ground, faint raindrops on his back.
Each footstep the slightest bit heavier. Each smile the slightest bit fainter. Each heartbeat the slightest bit wearier. And slowly, a drop. A sob. A tear.
It really was the end of it all, wasn't it? All these years, moving up the path by oneself; through rain, through shine, through pains and tears - how? How? Another sob, another tear. He continued walking.
The newer area of school, he thought, and cut himself midthought. This isn't newer anymore. A bittersweet smile. And he walked up another flight of stairs.
The empty table. On one end, him, laptop in hand and patiently typing out everything silently albeit annoyedly. On the other end, her - no, them -
- no, us.
Standing together around, giving moral support. For whom? Her. For whom? Another one of 'us'. For what? For her tears, for her sadness, for her worries. Doing the best we could. Remembering this very place one year down the road and laughing heartily about how she cried that day, all of us. And here I am, he thought, remembering about this very place a few years down the road, and he smiled as he walked down the stairs.
The pond. The messages; the fishes. The juniors feeding them. The staircases up to class. Every step, another person would run past excitedly. Every step, he would turn his head towards an empty staircase. Every step, the sounds would be drowned out by the rain.
The man reached the canteen, and opened the glass doors. He moved instinctively to the sixth store (the fifth later on, but merely an issue of orientation). Closed. Ah well, he thought, and went to the first store and bought a cup of iced tea before sitting down on one of the tables. The rain was silenced by the barrier of glass, and the canteen was a silent place to him.
Suddenly, he looked up. Why? He didn't know - a mere feeling. How did he know? He didn't - there was no way of knowing. But yet it was. He saw them, and they saw him. And they sat together after being apart for the longest of times. And they talked about the times that they were together, and the times that they were apart. And each step along someone would be smiling.
Moving on was painful. It hurt. But he went on. Because he wasn't walking alone. They were with him. What were they? He thought for a while. Ah. They were friends. The days were gone, the times are long past. In their place, a cup of iced tea; a well-due conversation. A single statement.
"Hey there."
Saturday, February 02, 2008
Guided by Shadows
小さな手でも いつの日か僕等追いこいして行くんだ
やがて来る日は新しい季節を開いた
---------------------------------------------
いつか聞いてほしいこの思いも
言葉にはならなくても
力の限りを振り絞って
ありがとう そう伝えていくから
---------------------------------------------
“俺たちは登り始める...長い、長い、坂道を...”
At the end of next year, everyone around will have finished walking their educational path (Barring readers not my age XD). Finished walking up the long, long, uphill climb.
Everyone probably has their own choices in mind; the universities they want to go to, the places they want to be at, the jobs they want to get placed in. A shining light they head towards.
“天の光は全て星”
What kind of stars do they head towards? What motivation brings them on their journey?
An edge and advantage in the future economy?
A status to satiate one's pride?
A high standard one has to live up to?
A consideration as to what would be the wisest choice?
All lights. Lights that bring them on to higher ground. The end of the tunnel; the crystal clear view at the top of the hill.
And when they finally touch the hill, they reach their target. The status they wanted. The edge they needed. The standard they achieved. The wisest choice for the wise man.
What brings them there? Light. What leads them there? Light. What is to be. Moving on from the darker past (Or perhaps for some an already bright past) into the ever-brighter future.
Whether it is by pride, by role models, or by economic consideration, these are things that renew themselves.
---------------------------------------------
The marionette graces the stage. The audience stares in silence.
"A wish!" The marionette cries. "How many of you before my eyes bear them?" Some eyes brightened, probably those who look up towards a good life. Some murmured to themselves, likely those without the simple expression of hope. A slight whisper across the crowd.
"A wish of mine it is!" Silence again. "A wish to be human. A wish to sit amongst the audience and stare at the clown of a marionette joke and play along on stage. The higher caste! The chance to enter school, work, play, and life itself! The world to which a mere marionette such as I is disallowed." Chortles from amongst half the crowd and silence from the other half. An interesting sight to be honest - half a group laughing and half a group mesmerized, both by the very same message.
The marionette's strings tightened and slacked with each and every movement. It walked, albeit jerkily, towards a young man at the right.
"What wish, young man, do you have? Share, please, to this poor marionette that he may learn what to wish for once he joins you in kind." A baffled look on the young man, as if asking the stagesman if it were serious. He opened his mouth and spoke.
"A doctor, o marionette. I wish to help the weak and ill."
"What lead you to such a wish, o noble doctor?" The doctor-to-be thought a while.
"But a sincere wish it is, and that is all it will be, o marionette."
"A noble wish it must be then, oh lad! I pray it comes true for you."
"And likewise to you too, o wishful marionette." Chuckles from the same half of the crowd. The marionette moved over to the left side now, each step a knock against the hardwood stage. This time it was a young lady.
"Fair lady, what wish do you have?" The fair lady looked up, surprised that she was chosen among the left crowd. She spoke.
"...My wish is to get into a college of good standing, o fair marionette."
"And what lead you to such a wish?" She thought a while.
"A standard, I would guess. One I must live up to; a trial and tribulation of sorts. Is that not what you face too, o kind marionette?"
"Indeed it is so, fair lady. And as those before you have done, I wish you good luck getting your academic status." Clicks and clocks again with each step towards the center stage. He first looked at a relatively older man, and stared at his unshaven beard.
"What wish do you hold, mister? Please, do share it with the audience." The man stroked his beard and thought a moment.
"To get into a college of good standing, much like the lady there." The marionette tilted its head to the left, and dropped a bit before the string tightened and kept it in place.
"And what makes a man of considerable age like you choose this wish?"
"An economic consideration, o marionette. You may find this concept rather alien."
"And I almost wish it stay that way, old man." Lastly, the marionette turned to the old man's left, and looked down. The marionette now met eye to eye with a child.
"What wish do you have, young child? I pray you share it with the audience!"
"I want to be the very best!" A bright, shining voice, certainly one of hope, of the sorts of idealism that was tinted with shades of innocence that had not met with the bitter realities of societal life. A slight feeling of warmth amongst the crowds, yet a slight chuckle around it at the same time.
"And how did you come upon such a peculiar wish, young child?" The child smiled.
"I just want to! I know I can!" The marionette raised its body.
"Pride it is, then, that leads you to this wish. And though my heart is wood I wish that you all find your wish fulfilled in your hands." The child rose and spoke.
"What about you, o wooden marionette? What leads you to your wishes?"
"What motivates me, is it? Child? A curse that you should ask me such a difficult question!" The marionette slowly backed towards stage center, then spread its arms wide out.
"Light! That is what leads you all on! Pride! Status! Faith! Calm consideration! Fine motivations, and well ones at that. But what of me?" The marionette twirled itself left and right, looking around for any answer. Pure silence.
"What of me?"
"What of me, o audience? This wooden heart of mine can bear no wish for the betterment of humanity, o noble doctor. I have no peers or people before me to look up to in my wish and achievements, fair lady. I have no knowledge of the societal ways and have too little in this wooden head to consider, old man. And most of all-" The marionette lowered its head and looked at the again.
"I can't just believe that I can do it." The child stared blankly while the marionette began to walk around the stage.
"What leads me then, if not the light that leads you on, from the dark past into the bright future? Who knows, some of you never had a dark past! What leads me to the end of the long uphill climb? What is the light at the end of the tunnel for me? What is that light?" The crowd stays silent, mesmerized by the words of the marionette. The marionette took a step forward - a knock against the hardwood floor.
"To that, I say." Another step. "There is none." Some of their audience turn their heads. Some raise their eyebrows. "There is none, I say!" The cry amongst the deafening silence shocks them back. "A mere shadow is my motivation."
Another step.
"Look at this before me! A stage! An audience! Look at the spotlights! See where they shine! On me! Look at yourselves; the audience, sitting in the darkness! Pitiful creatures, the lot of you! What were you doing thinking that you ever stood tall against me, the stagesman? What leads me towards you? What can possibly lead me from the light into the darkness? It can only be the shadow; the shadow of me, cast from the light of the past into the darkness and uncertainty of the future! This is no light, o child. There is no light that can possibly bring me to higher ground."
"And yet I head there. So may your light may lead you on to greater heights, yet my shadow do the same."
A member of the audience stood up. "Why a shadow, marionette? Is there really no light that we can give to you? A reason or hope, perhaps?"
"Hah! What mere spark can you give towards me? Mock me not, mister. Though I have no light I find the shadow brighter than your fake illumination." The child stood up and looked at the man, head hung in shame, before turning around again and facing the marionette.
"Then what was it that placed your wish to be a man, o marionette? The shadows are but your journey from light, they cannot be the cause."
The marionette hung its head low for a moment before looking at the child.
"You have a love for difficult questions, it seems, o child. What it is then I shall tell you, and the members of the audience. Listen well." The crowd was silent. "I too am but a mere marionette, wishless and hopeless. Yet chance would have it that a child like you come up to my imperfect wooden body. That young girl gave me this wish, oh child, that I become human. Yet she is long gone; a shadow lay in her place from the direction she headed off." The child remained silent, and the marionette, noticing that, continued.
"Tell me, oh child. If I become human, may I see her? May I give her my thanks? I may; I may not. Yet it is this promise with a shadow - the shadow of the past, child - that gives me this wish. And it is this wish that gives birth to the shadow that wanes as I walk further into the darkness until it has completely blended in; that I have finally entered the unknown world in search for this girl. But a mere marionette I am! What can I do?" The marionette stomped on the floor, a loud knock. "Chains, these things! Chains from the past that keep me here in fear and sentimentality, from moving on! Oh, how I wish that the past be gone, the shadow stop chasing me!"
And the marionette continued to talk. But the show was soon over; the marionette was soon to leave the stage. And the strings pulled slowly; the marionette went up slowly and slowly. And the child, the audience; they looked as the marionette lifted from the ground.
"Look at me! A mere marionette! Never to be a human!" The marionette fumbled and twisted its arms left and right, resisting. The child ran up.
"Let the marionette go, vile strings! Let his feet stay on the ground!" And the child jumped up and grabbed the marionette.
Slowly and slowly, the strings tightened. The child pulled the marionette down. "You will have the light, o marionette. I am sure that you will meet the girl someday."
And the strings gave way, and the marionette and the child dropped on the floor with a loud thud against the hardwood floor.
"You will, right? O marionette."
But the marionette was wishless, hopeless and motionless.
やがて来る日は新しい季節を開いた
---------------------------------------------
いつか聞いてほしいこの思いも
言葉にはならなくても
力の限りを振り絞って
ありがとう そう伝えていくから
---------------------------------------------
“俺たちは登り始める...長い、長い、坂道を...”
At the end of next year, everyone around will have finished walking their educational path (Barring readers not my age XD). Finished walking up the long, long, uphill climb.
Everyone probably has their own choices in mind; the universities they want to go to, the places they want to be at, the jobs they want to get placed in. A shining light they head towards.
“天の光は全て星”
What kind of stars do they head towards? What motivation brings them on their journey?
An edge and advantage in the future economy?
A status to satiate one's pride?
A high standard one has to live up to?
A consideration as to what would be the wisest choice?
All lights. Lights that bring them on to higher ground. The end of the tunnel; the crystal clear view at the top of the hill.
And when they finally touch the hill, they reach their target. The status they wanted. The edge they needed. The standard they achieved. The wisest choice for the wise man.
What brings them there? Light. What leads them there? Light. What is to be. Moving on from the darker past (Or perhaps for some an already bright past) into the ever-brighter future.
Whether it is by pride, by role models, or by economic consideration, these are things that renew themselves.
---------------------------------------------
The marionette graces the stage. The audience stares in silence.
"A wish!" The marionette cries. "How many of you before my eyes bear them?" Some eyes brightened, probably those who look up towards a good life. Some murmured to themselves, likely those without the simple expression of hope. A slight whisper across the crowd.
"A wish of mine it is!" Silence again. "A wish to be human. A wish to sit amongst the audience and stare at the clown of a marionette joke and play along on stage. The higher caste! The chance to enter school, work, play, and life itself! The world to which a mere marionette such as I is disallowed." Chortles from amongst half the crowd and silence from the other half. An interesting sight to be honest - half a group laughing and half a group mesmerized, both by the very same message.
The marionette's strings tightened and slacked with each and every movement. It walked, albeit jerkily, towards a young man at the right.
"What wish, young man, do you have? Share, please, to this poor marionette that he may learn what to wish for once he joins you in kind." A baffled look on the young man, as if asking the stagesman if it were serious. He opened his mouth and spoke.
"A doctor, o marionette. I wish to help the weak and ill."
"What lead you to such a wish, o noble doctor?" The doctor-to-be thought a while.
"But a sincere wish it is, and that is all it will be, o marionette."
"A noble wish it must be then, oh lad! I pray it comes true for you."
"And likewise to you too, o wishful marionette." Chuckles from the same half of the crowd. The marionette moved over to the left side now, each step a knock against the hardwood stage. This time it was a young lady.
"Fair lady, what wish do you have?" The fair lady looked up, surprised that she was chosen among the left crowd. She spoke.
"...My wish is to get into a college of good standing, o fair marionette."
"And what lead you to such a wish?" She thought a while.
"A standard, I would guess. One I must live up to; a trial and tribulation of sorts. Is that not what you face too, o kind marionette?"
"Indeed it is so, fair lady. And as those before you have done, I wish you good luck getting your academic status." Clicks and clocks again with each step towards the center stage. He first looked at a relatively older man, and stared at his unshaven beard.
"What wish do you hold, mister? Please, do share it with the audience." The man stroked his beard and thought a moment.
"To get into a college of good standing, much like the lady there." The marionette tilted its head to the left, and dropped a bit before the string tightened and kept it in place.
"And what makes a man of considerable age like you choose this wish?"
"An economic consideration, o marionette. You may find this concept rather alien."
"And I almost wish it stay that way, old man." Lastly, the marionette turned to the old man's left, and looked down. The marionette now met eye to eye with a child.
"What wish do you have, young child? I pray you share it with the audience!"
"I want to be the very best!" A bright, shining voice, certainly one of hope, of the sorts of idealism that was tinted with shades of innocence that had not met with the bitter realities of societal life. A slight feeling of warmth amongst the crowds, yet a slight chuckle around it at the same time.
"And how did you come upon such a peculiar wish, young child?" The child smiled.
"I just want to! I know I can!" The marionette raised its body.
"Pride it is, then, that leads you to this wish. And though my heart is wood I wish that you all find your wish fulfilled in your hands." The child rose and spoke.
"What about you, o wooden marionette? What leads you to your wishes?"
"What motivates me, is it? Child? A curse that you should ask me such a difficult question!" The marionette slowly backed towards stage center, then spread its arms wide out.
"Light! That is what leads you all on! Pride! Status! Faith! Calm consideration! Fine motivations, and well ones at that. But what of me?" The marionette twirled itself left and right, looking around for any answer. Pure silence.
"What of me?"
"What of me, o audience? This wooden heart of mine can bear no wish for the betterment of humanity, o noble doctor. I have no peers or people before me to look up to in my wish and achievements, fair lady. I have no knowledge of the societal ways and have too little in this wooden head to consider, old man. And most of all-" The marionette lowered its head and looked at the again.
"I can't just believe that I can do it." The child stared blankly while the marionette began to walk around the stage.
"What leads me then, if not the light that leads you on, from the dark past into the bright future? Who knows, some of you never had a dark past! What leads me to the end of the long uphill climb? What is the light at the end of the tunnel for me? What is that light?" The crowd stays silent, mesmerized by the words of the marionette. The marionette took a step forward - a knock against the hardwood floor.
"To that, I say." Another step. "There is none." Some of their audience turn their heads. Some raise their eyebrows. "There is none, I say!" The cry amongst the deafening silence shocks them back. "A mere shadow is my motivation."
Another step.
"Look at this before me! A stage! An audience! Look at the spotlights! See where they shine! On me! Look at yourselves; the audience, sitting in the darkness! Pitiful creatures, the lot of you! What were you doing thinking that you ever stood tall against me, the stagesman? What leads me towards you? What can possibly lead me from the light into the darkness? It can only be the shadow; the shadow of me, cast from the light of the past into the darkness and uncertainty of the future! This is no light, o child. There is no light that can possibly bring me to higher ground."
"And yet I head there. So may your light may lead you on to greater heights, yet my shadow do the same."
A member of the audience stood up. "Why a shadow, marionette? Is there really no light that we can give to you? A reason or hope, perhaps?"
"Hah! What mere spark can you give towards me? Mock me not, mister. Though I have no light I find the shadow brighter than your fake illumination." The child stood up and looked at the man, head hung in shame, before turning around again and facing the marionette.
"Then what was it that placed your wish to be a man, o marionette? The shadows are but your journey from light, they cannot be the cause."
The marionette hung its head low for a moment before looking at the child.
"You have a love for difficult questions, it seems, o child. What it is then I shall tell you, and the members of the audience. Listen well." The crowd was silent. "I too am but a mere marionette, wishless and hopeless. Yet chance would have it that a child like you come up to my imperfect wooden body. That young girl gave me this wish, oh child, that I become human. Yet she is long gone; a shadow lay in her place from the direction she headed off." The child remained silent, and the marionette, noticing that, continued.
"Tell me, oh child. If I become human, may I see her? May I give her my thanks? I may; I may not. Yet it is this promise with a shadow - the shadow of the past, child - that gives me this wish. And it is this wish that gives birth to the shadow that wanes as I walk further into the darkness until it has completely blended in; that I have finally entered the unknown world in search for this girl. But a mere marionette I am! What can I do?" The marionette stomped on the floor, a loud knock. "Chains, these things! Chains from the past that keep me here in fear and sentimentality, from moving on! Oh, how I wish that the past be gone, the shadow stop chasing me!"
And the marionette continued to talk. But the show was soon over; the marionette was soon to leave the stage. And the strings pulled slowly; the marionette went up slowly and slowly. And the child, the audience; they looked as the marionette lifted from the ground.
"Look at me! A mere marionette! Never to be a human!" The marionette fumbled and twisted its arms left and right, resisting. The child ran up.
"Let the marionette go, vile strings! Let his feet stay on the ground!" And the child jumped up and grabbed the marionette.
Slowly and slowly, the strings tightened. The child pulled the marionette down. "You will have the light, o marionette. I am sure that you will meet the girl someday."
And the strings gave way, and the marionette and the child dropped on the floor with a loud thud against the hardwood floor.
"You will, right? O marionette."
But the marionette was wishless, hopeless and motionless.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
A Home on the Range
The man patted the child on the head. Next to them the campfire burned softly, and small bits of ash danced about amongst the flames. Save for the occasional sound of the crackling wood, the tumbleweeds blown across the fields and the gentle whispers of the zephyr, the two lay on the ground, staring up at a sky adorned with bright, diamond sand.
“What do you think of it, sonnie? Bet the stars ain’t ever been so bright back on the range, has it?”
“It sure is, Dad! The view is so beautiful out here.”
And amongst the few tufts of grass and the tumbleweeds, the father talked about a multitude of things. And there, the son learnt about the world – the stars, the land, and its people. He listened on in marvel and awe; marvel at a universe wider than he ever imagined and awe at a father who knew so much about the world.
“Dad, when I grow up, I wanna be like you. Get on a horse and ride across the West. Ya think I’m up for it, Dad?”
“Sure, son, but you havta take care of Mom, you know that?”
“That’s no fair! You can take care of Mom by yourself, why do I need to do it?” the father chuckled lightly amidst the child’s words. “I wanna know what it feels like, Dad! To be free! To roam the land! Why do you get to do it by yourself?”
The father laughed again. “Well, sonnie, when you grow up, I’m sure you’ll get why.”
Close to twilight, the two made their way back to their home, the one single house in sight with the lights still on. The son ran enthusiastically towards the door and opened it, jovially running towards his mother and hugging her, then making his way up to his room.
“Sorry to keep you up so late, hon.”
“It’s all right, darling.” And she kissed him lightly on the lips before passing him his share of dinner, already cold from the hours of not being eaten immediately.
The father took one spoonful of stew and stuffed it in his mouth. Though it was already cold, the rich taste of golden potatoes and the flavour of lovely, homemade stew warmed his heart, and that was sufficient. It was perfect as it was, just the way it should have been. His wife came over and faithfully took the plates back into the kitchen to clean, then he stepped out of the house and stared out towards the range. The range was completely silent, save for the rustling of grass and the breeze that came. The stars in the sky glimmered as brightly as ever; the crescent moon hung high in the sky amongst the specks of diamond sand. Everywhere the eye could see was still, as if resting for the night. In his heart he knew that the scenery was just as beautiful, if not more.
When he headed back into the house and went upstairs, he heard a faint sound of a child rolling over in his sleep, not of one sleeping peacefully but of one trying hard to sleep but unable to, and he went into the son’s room.
“Dad, can you sing a lullaby for me?”
And he sang a song until the child fell asleep. A song about the bright heavens, the playful antelopes, the pure air and the wildflowers, yet most importantly it was a song about a home.
When dawn came, the father stepped out of the house again. And out on the range he saw the antelopes and deers graze, the wildflowers and the mountains in the distance, the eternal blue sky widespread across like a huge canvas; he breathed in the pure air and smelled the faint aroma of breakfast from the kitchen; he heard the grass rustling and the buffalo’s calls; and he felt the feel of the wind against his skin, a soft touch.
Wherever he went, the father thought, it didn’t matter in the least bit. Wherever he went there would be something that was more important than anything else. Wherever he went, whether it was the town to the west or the plains far north, he would return to the same place. This place on the range right over here.
He sang the song again. It was a song about the bright heavens, the playful antelopes, the pure air and the wildflowers.
But more important than that all, it was a song about a home. A home where seldom is heard a discouraging word and the skies are not cloudy all day.
“What do you think of it, sonnie? Bet the stars ain’t ever been so bright back on the range, has it?”
“It sure is, Dad! The view is so beautiful out here.”
And amongst the few tufts of grass and the tumbleweeds, the father talked about a multitude of things. And there, the son learnt about the world – the stars, the land, and its people. He listened on in marvel and awe; marvel at a universe wider than he ever imagined and awe at a father who knew so much about the world.
“Dad, when I grow up, I wanna be like you. Get on a horse and ride across the West. Ya think I’m up for it, Dad?”
“Sure, son, but you havta take care of Mom, you know that?”
“That’s no fair! You can take care of Mom by yourself, why do I need to do it?” the father chuckled lightly amidst the child’s words. “I wanna know what it feels like, Dad! To be free! To roam the land! Why do you get to do it by yourself?”
The father laughed again. “Well, sonnie, when you grow up, I’m sure you’ll get why.”
Close to twilight, the two made their way back to their home, the one single house in sight with the lights still on. The son ran enthusiastically towards the door and opened it, jovially running towards his mother and hugging her, then making his way up to his room.
“Sorry to keep you up so late, hon.”
“It’s all right, darling.” And she kissed him lightly on the lips before passing him his share of dinner, already cold from the hours of not being eaten immediately.
The father took one spoonful of stew and stuffed it in his mouth. Though it was already cold, the rich taste of golden potatoes and the flavour of lovely, homemade stew warmed his heart, and that was sufficient. It was perfect as it was, just the way it should have been. His wife came over and faithfully took the plates back into the kitchen to clean, then he stepped out of the house and stared out towards the range. The range was completely silent, save for the rustling of grass and the breeze that came. The stars in the sky glimmered as brightly as ever; the crescent moon hung high in the sky amongst the specks of diamond sand. Everywhere the eye could see was still, as if resting for the night. In his heart he knew that the scenery was just as beautiful, if not more.
When he headed back into the house and went upstairs, he heard a faint sound of a child rolling over in his sleep, not of one sleeping peacefully but of one trying hard to sleep but unable to, and he went into the son’s room.
“Dad, can you sing a lullaby for me?”
And he sang a song until the child fell asleep. A song about the bright heavens, the playful antelopes, the pure air and the wildflowers, yet most importantly it was a song about a home.
When dawn came, the father stepped out of the house again. And out on the range he saw the antelopes and deers graze, the wildflowers and the mountains in the distance, the eternal blue sky widespread across like a huge canvas; he breathed in the pure air and smelled the faint aroma of breakfast from the kitchen; he heard the grass rustling and the buffalo’s calls; and he felt the feel of the wind against his skin, a soft touch.
Wherever he went, the father thought, it didn’t matter in the least bit. Wherever he went there would be something that was more important than anything else. Wherever he went, whether it was the town to the west or the plains far north, he would return to the same place. This place on the range right over here.
He sang the song again. It was a song about the bright heavens, the playful antelopes, the pure air and the wildflowers.
But more important than that all, it was a song about a home. A home where seldom is heard a discouraging word and the skies are not cloudy all day.
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