She heard a voice calling her, from far away. A very familiar, nostalgic, and yet, sorrowful voice. Calling her…always asking her questions, but never staying to hear her answer.
She was in a park that was lined with sakura trees in full bloom. Using her left palm to shield her eyes from the glaring sunlight, she tilted her head this way and that, unsure of what to expect from this strange setting.
“Why have you been looking for me?” asked the slightly bemused voice.
She was taken aback.
“I – what? But I haven’t been looking for you!” she protested.
Where was she? And who was he?
A cold wind blew and she shivered.
“Then why are you here?” came the reply, albeit one that was tinged with the barest trace of melancholy.
She turned in the direction of the mysterious voice, and caught sight of a young man casually leaning under a sakura tree in full bloom. His arms were folded and he was gazing at her with what seemed like an X-ray vision. As if he could see through right through her contradictions and half-baked lies.
“I, I…” she stuttered.
He cocked his head to the side, and continued staring at her in a contemplative fashion.
Feeling for the world like a lab rat under observation, she squirmed uncomfortably.
And still, she was at a loss for words.
“I came because.. because, I -”
“I have to go now,” he said abruptly, tilting his head towards the far end of the park that they were in. Over at the other end she could see a playground, and some festival of sorts with various stalls selling snacks of all shapes and sizes.
Where was he going?
“Wait! Don’t go!” she said, walking through the rows and rows of sakura trees that were in full bloom. Towards him, always towards the him that she didn’t know, and couldn’t understand.
He dusted himself off and started heading in the opposite direction.
“Wait, please! Tell me who you are!” she panted, as she continued chasing after his retreating back.
But he would not pay heed to her pleas. Or perhaps, he could no longer hear her. Maybe he never would.
Why then had he approached her first?
Or was it true that she had been the one chasing after his shadow all the while? Then, suddenly…
“RIIIIINGGG!!!!”
The alarm clock buzzed angrily next to her right ear, and she jolted out of bed in a frenzy.
Reaching over to turn off the nuisance of an alarm clock, she stretched and blinked blearily.
“A…dream…huh,” she murmured.
Placing a slender wrist against her head wearily, she winced and massaged her aching temples as she mustered her energy to recall the vague, shifty images that plagued her disturbed sleep.
But his face wouldn’t surface, no matter how hard she tried to recall the contents of her dream.
Only his voice. Always the same, probing, mysterious tenor voice.
Dragging herself out of bed, she propped herself up before the mirror at her dressing table and stared at her sleepy reflection. He was so going to pay for the horrendous Dark rings beneath her eyes…well, that is, if she ever found out who he was.
“You there. Who exactly are you, and why have you been appearing in my dreams ever since Valentine’s Day?”
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Friday, February 15, 2008
12
Valentine’s Day in Cologne.
He walked alone, along Schildergasse, surrounded by happy couples clinging on to each other as if their lives depended on it.
“Valentine’s Day. Who the hell thought of this huh?” He kicked an empty plastic bottle lying on the ground. “It’s just a marketing gimmick.”
He stepped onto that same bottle, crushing it. “No, it’s a big mockery. Mocking those pathetic people like me.”
He noticed some people looking at him. He turned away. He knew he was being silly, he was being immature.
Let those people indulge themselves on this meaningless day.
You don’t need a special day to show your love, to be especially loving, especially romantic.
Every day can be a Valentine’s Day.
“Very clever. Now, all you need to do is to find someone, huh,” he sighed.
A puff of air formed in front of him, and quickly disappeared again.
He walked alone, along Schildergasse, surrounded by happy couples clinging on to each other as if their lives depended on it.
“Valentine’s Day. Who the hell thought of this huh?” He kicked an empty plastic bottle lying on the ground. “It’s just a marketing gimmick.”
He stepped onto that same bottle, crushing it. “No, it’s a big mockery. Mocking those pathetic people like me.”
He noticed some people looking at him. He turned away. He knew he was being silly, he was being immature.
Let those people indulge themselves on this meaningless day.
You don’t need a special day to show your love, to be especially loving, especially romantic.
Every day can be a Valentine’s Day.
“Very clever. Now, all you need to do is to find someone, huh,” he sighed.
A puff of air formed in front of him, and quickly disappeared again.
11
It snowed again, on 14 February 2008. Valentine’s Day. The day of giving chocolates and receiving red roses.
His birthday.
She blinked, and pretended to fiddle with her necklace in a feeble attempt to distract herself from the fact that she’d actually remembered.
But then again, some things aren’t easily forgotten even if you put your entire heart into trying to.
“Man, this is seriously depressing…” bemoaned Haruki, eyes twinkling in barely concealed mirth. “4 elite university students with absolutely no DATES on Valentine’s Day? Where’s the justice in that?!” he sighed melodramatically, leaning back against the chair as he crossed his arms in apparent disapproval.
“Good girls are hard to come by these days,” noted Takuya offhandedly, as he flipped open his Shounen Jump comic to read the latest installation of his favourite manga series, Bleach.
“And that’s why you’re so obsessed with anime?” piqued Shuuichi in his usual bemused, sardonic fashion. “As expected of our resident otaku frie-”
“Look I am NOT obsessed-”
“Either that, or you’re antisocial.”
A few sniggers of approval from Haruki.
“Now that’s a completely ridiculous claim! If I were antisocial would I be joining people like you on Valentine’s Day, when I cou-”
“Hey I take offense at the tone of “people like you”!”
A grunt of approval from the other side.
A heartbeat of temporal, fragile silence.
Then, a sharp, pointed question.
“What’s all the hype about Valentine’s Day, anyway? Doesn’t it just segregate the “haves” from the “have-nots”?”
For the first time throughout the whole conversation, she lifted her head in surprise and stared at the other 3 guys sitting around the table in intrigue.
“It’s a marketing tool used by chocolate companies to increase sales; isn’t that obvious?” muttered Shuuichi, pausing for a moment to push his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.
“Who cares about market sales; For once in my lifetime, I just want to experience… what they call, “real love”. Getting chocolates and all from some cute girl you know? Celebrating Valentine’s together and everything. Love. Yeah. Or something like that,” added Haruki quickly, trying to mask his slight discomfort with the usual dose of confidence and good cheer.
“Love…, huh.” She mumbled absentmindedly, staring at the caramel mochi cream dessert that lay untouched on the table in front of her. “Real love… is nothing like Valentine’s Day at all.”
But Haruki was nonchalant.
“Never been there, never done that, so… no comment.”
Her eyes took on a misty, faraway look.
“Before wanting to fall in love, know that it’s about giving chocolates everyday and not ever being guaranteed that you’ll receive any in return; it’s about writing a thousand love letters that might never reach the other side’s mailbox; it’s about waiting unconditionally and indefinitely for someone who never promised to show up.
“It’s about sacrifice, and giving up your rights so that the other party may smile; even if not for you, in the very least, as they walk past you, out the door.” She concluded. “It’s really painful, you know, Haruki?”
Awkward silence hung between the four friends ominously.
“I-err, never thought that far. But come to think of it, you never told us about…you know. Him. What exactly happened.” Responded Haruki in an unusually subdued tone.
The other two nodded silently. Shuuichi was observing her in a very contemplative way that made her feel as if she was transparent and being read from top to bottom; and even Takuya had put down his comic for the moment to listen to what she had to say.
She rested her chin on her palm thoughtfully and stared past them to the snow that was falling silently in the outside world. Falling snowflakes, dancing and twirling in wild abandon in the chilly February air.
"It doesn't make for good Valentine's Day material, but would you listen to my story anyway?"
His birthday.
She blinked, and pretended to fiddle with her necklace in a feeble attempt to distract herself from the fact that she’d actually remembered.
But then again, some things aren’t easily forgotten even if you put your entire heart into trying to.
“Man, this is seriously depressing…” bemoaned Haruki, eyes twinkling in barely concealed mirth. “4 elite university students with absolutely no DATES on Valentine’s Day? Where’s the justice in that?!” he sighed melodramatically, leaning back against the chair as he crossed his arms in apparent disapproval.
“Good girls are hard to come by these days,” noted Takuya offhandedly, as he flipped open his Shounen Jump comic to read the latest installation of his favourite manga series, Bleach.
“And that’s why you’re so obsessed with anime?” piqued Shuuichi in his usual bemused, sardonic fashion. “As expected of our resident otaku frie-”
“Look I am NOT obsessed-”
“Either that, or you’re antisocial.”
A few sniggers of approval from Haruki.
“Now that’s a completely ridiculous claim! If I were antisocial would I be joining people like you on Valentine’s Day, when I cou-”
“Hey I take offense at the tone of “people like you”!”
A grunt of approval from the other side.
A heartbeat of temporal, fragile silence.
Then, a sharp, pointed question.
“What’s all the hype about Valentine’s Day, anyway? Doesn’t it just segregate the “haves” from the “have-nots”?”
For the first time throughout the whole conversation, she lifted her head in surprise and stared at the other 3 guys sitting around the table in intrigue.
“It’s a marketing tool used by chocolate companies to increase sales; isn’t that obvious?” muttered Shuuichi, pausing for a moment to push his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.
“Who cares about market sales; For once in my lifetime, I just want to experience… what they call, “real love”. Getting chocolates and all from some cute girl you know? Celebrating Valentine’s together and everything. Love. Yeah. Or something like that,” added Haruki quickly, trying to mask his slight discomfort with the usual dose of confidence and good cheer.
“Love…, huh.” She mumbled absentmindedly, staring at the caramel mochi cream dessert that lay untouched on the table in front of her. “Real love… is nothing like Valentine’s Day at all.”
But Haruki was nonchalant.
“Never been there, never done that, so… no comment.”
Her eyes took on a misty, faraway look.
“Before wanting to fall in love, know that it’s about giving chocolates everyday and not ever being guaranteed that you’ll receive any in return; it’s about writing a thousand love letters that might never reach the other side’s mailbox; it’s about waiting unconditionally and indefinitely for someone who never promised to show up.
“It’s about sacrifice, and giving up your rights so that the other party may smile; even if not for you, in the very least, as they walk past you, out the door.” She concluded. “It’s really painful, you know, Haruki?”
Awkward silence hung between the four friends ominously.
“I-err, never thought that far. But come to think of it, you never told us about…you know. Him. What exactly happened.” Responded Haruki in an unusually subdued tone.
The other two nodded silently. Shuuichi was observing her in a very contemplative way that made her feel as if she was transparent and being read from top to bottom; and even Takuya had put down his comic for the moment to listen to what she had to say.
She rested her chin on her palm thoughtfully and stared past them to the snow that was falling silently in the outside world. Falling snowflakes, dancing and twirling in wild abandon in the chilly February air.
"It doesn't make for good Valentine's Day material, but would you listen to my story anyway?"
Thursday, January 31, 2008
10
31 January 2008. Last day of the first month of the new year. Almost a whole month in Köln now.
Today was especially cold. Perhaps because of the rain. Or perhaps because of his loneliness. As he stood on the train platform, his hands dug deep into his jacket pockets against the cold, he remembered the day he left.
JAL 93. Kansai International Airport to Frankfurt Flughafen.
But where was he headed?
He felt the first raindrops of the day. No snow here, but the rain.
As the rain got heavier, he suddenly realised something.
He missed the snow.
Today was especially cold. Perhaps because of the rain. Or perhaps because of his loneliness. As he stood on the train platform, his hands dug deep into his jacket pockets against the cold, he remembered the day he left.
JAL 93. Kansai International Airport to Frankfurt Flughafen.
But where was he headed?
He felt the first raindrops of the day. No snow here, but the rain.
As the rain got heavier, he suddenly realised something.
He missed the snow.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
9
“C-c-cold!! Ugh, cold, cold, cold, COLD!!” she shivered, teeth chattering and heart jumping as she stepped out into the icy morning air.
Yes, there was no mistaking it.
Winter had come in full force: The bitter Northwest winds that seemed to penetrate into one’s very bones, the perpetually moody, overcast January skies, and of course – what was Winter without the occasional falling of snow?
Snow – it was the first time she’d ever seen the falling of snow, and it delighted her to no end. But this morning, she hardly noticed her surroundings as she ran, her hurried footsteps echoing off the path that she was on.
Late as usual, and muttering a string of “It’s cold, it’s SO cold!!” in a permutation of various languages, she dashed through the winding roads towards her school looking, for the world, like the perpetually-late-for-first-period-Winter-classes student that she most unfortunately was.
However, as the soft, cotton-white dots began tumbling from the grey clouds in the early morning stillness, her hurried footsteps eventually slowed to a walking pace, as she tilted her head to the skies, in an attempt to embrace the falling snow.
And in the midst of pure silence, she realized, with a jolt, that her heartbeat was the only thing that could be heard. It’s one of those moments to remember, she mused to herself. Class instantaneously forgotten, her searching eyes observed the direction of the wind, and she found her feet automatically following the path of the falling snow to a nearby park. There, she seated herself on a creaky wooden swing, and began to observe the falling of “kona yuki” – powder snow.
After a long time, she took out a piece of paper – the paper she was supposed to write her report on – and allowed inspiration to breathe meaning into mere words.
Powdery white flakes dancing in the wind, as if being toyed with by the invisible hands of a Master Puppeteer. Taken wherever the wind chooses to blow; haphazard and helpless in all of its silent allure. Suspended – if only for the barest fraction of a moment, by the strong gales – only to hurtle once more in vulnerable spirals towards the cold, hard asphalt of reality. And in their descent, the falling snow drops inevitably lose their form, their pristine beauty, and hence shed the magic of their forbidden, transient waltz with the harsh Northwest winds. Trampled upon, by those who neither see nor care about that which does not last; and perceived, by those walking figures whose minds are set on far greater, more practical endeavours, as nothing more than a slippery danger to be rid of.
She replaced the cover of her pen cap and casually dropped it into the open pencil case that was on the ground beside her. The snow had stopped falling, and already little pools of melted snow were forming on the field that was before her. Staring at the paragraph that she’d just written, she smiled, for the first time that day. Little dots of white, fluffy snow were on her muffler, on her coat, in her hair… and even on her essay; blotting out the ink in tiny patches here and there.
Yes, it was freezing. And she must’ve been crazy to stay out alone in the field – skipping class in an attempt to crystallize the moment and encapsulate it in words. But it was worth it. She’d not written for a very long time… ever since then. She just never had the inspiration to. For the longest time, she only saw the black in a monochrome world, and the empty space in a half-filled container.
But now, as she reflected on the symbolism of the dance between the falling snow and the Northwest winds, she realized that perhaps – just perhaps – she was ready to accept both the fleeting beauty, and the permanent scars borne out of a relationship.
After all, like the fragile droplets of snow, sometimes people curiously find themselves falling, even if they never meant to.
Yes, there was no mistaking it.
Winter had come in full force: The bitter Northwest winds that seemed to penetrate into one’s very bones, the perpetually moody, overcast January skies, and of course – what was Winter without the occasional falling of snow?
Snow – it was the first time she’d ever seen the falling of snow, and it delighted her to no end. But this morning, she hardly noticed her surroundings as she ran, her hurried footsteps echoing off the path that she was on.
Late as usual, and muttering a string of “It’s cold, it’s SO cold!!” in a permutation of various languages, she dashed through the winding roads towards her school looking, for the world, like the perpetually-late-for-first-period-Winter-classes student that she most unfortunately was.
However, as the soft, cotton-white dots began tumbling from the grey clouds in the early morning stillness, her hurried footsteps eventually slowed to a walking pace, as she tilted her head to the skies, in an attempt to embrace the falling snow.
And in the midst of pure silence, she realized, with a jolt, that her heartbeat was the only thing that could be heard. It’s one of those moments to remember, she mused to herself. Class instantaneously forgotten, her searching eyes observed the direction of the wind, and she found her feet automatically following the path of the falling snow to a nearby park. There, she seated herself on a creaky wooden swing, and began to observe the falling of “kona yuki” – powder snow.
After a long time, she took out a piece of paper – the paper she was supposed to write her report on – and allowed inspiration to breathe meaning into mere words.
Powdery white flakes dancing in the wind, as if being toyed with by the invisible hands of a Master Puppeteer. Taken wherever the wind chooses to blow; haphazard and helpless in all of its silent allure. Suspended – if only for the barest fraction of a moment, by the strong gales – only to hurtle once more in vulnerable spirals towards the cold, hard asphalt of reality. And in their descent, the falling snow drops inevitably lose their form, their pristine beauty, and hence shed the magic of their forbidden, transient waltz with the harsh Northwest winds. Trampled upon, by those who neither see nor care about that which does not last; and perceived, by those walking figures whose minds are set on far greater, more practical endeavours, as nothing more than a slippery danger to be rid of.
She replaced the cover of her pen cap and casually dropped it into the open pencil case that was on the ground beside her. The snow had stopped falling, and already little pools of melted snow were forming on the field that was before her. Staring at the paragraph that she’d just written, she smiled, for the first time that day. Little dots of white, fluffy snow were on her muffler, on her coat, in her hair… and even on her essay; blotting out the ink in tiny patches here and there.
Yes, it was freezing. And she must’ve been crazy to stay out alone in the field – skipping class in an attempt to crystallize the moment and encapsulate it in words. But it was worth it. She’d not written for a very long time… ever since then. She just never had the inspiration to. For the longest time, she only saw the black in a monochrome world, and the empty space in a half-filled container.
But now, as she reflected on the symbolism of the dance between the falling snow and the Northwest winds, she realized that perhaps – just perhaps – she was ready to accept both the fleeting beauty, and the permanent scars borne out of a relationship.
After all, like the fragile droplets of snow, sometimes people curiously find themselves falling, even if they never meant to.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
8
On the last day of December, the last day of 2007, he was alone in his apartment, sipping a cup of his favourite maple cuppucino, as he surfed the net. He needed to get away from the countdowns, from the fireworks, from the people.
He stumbled upon a blog. A total stranger.
Hey. Are you reading this?
I went through old stuff today, and memories suddenly came flooding back. I remembered things that I have forgotten, and you would have forgotten.
Do you know that the first time we talked, you asked me for sweets?
Do you know that you once asked me to find out his birthday for you?
Do you know that the first time we talked on the phone, I walked home from the bus stop, climbed up the stairs to my house and down again, before staying there after realising that it would indeed take a while? I had only called to wish you luck.
Do you know that I am smiling now as I remember that time, when I called you by your full name, and you turned around, smiling as though you had been waiting for it?
Do you know that I can't remember when was the last time you called me by name?
Do you know that at the exhibition, I waited right till the end, waited until I realised that you wouldn’t be presenting your work to me?
You know, I am not really used to your long hair.
You know, every time I try to leave, the you in me seem to get jealous and cry. And I will turn back, only to find you gone.
Maybe I have been picked by God to be your tavern, a shelter for you to rest when you are tired, someone to help you on your way.
One day, when you have found someone who understands you more than I ever will, who loves you more than I ever will, when you don’t really need me anymore, you will leave me.
Until then, I ought to be always there for you, as I had promised.
Only I can’t. Not anymore. I will be far away.
I am sorry.
He shouldn't have read it because it wasn't meant for him. The owner of the blog had probably written it, in the vain hope that whoever it was meant for would somehow stumble upon it, or simply because he knew that she read his blog. Anyhow, he simply couldn't resist reading the whole entry.
She should let him go, he thought, as he clicked to go to the next blog.
You should let me go, he realised.
He stumbled upon a blog. A total stranger.
Hey. Are you reading this?
I went through old stuff today, and memories suddenly came flooding back. I remembered things that I have forgotten, and you would have forgotten.
Do you know that the first time we talked, you asked me for sweets?
Do you know that you once asked me to find out his birthday for you?
Do you know that the first time we talked on the phone, I walked home from the bus stop, climbed up the stairs to my house and down again, before staying there after realising that it would indeed take a while? I had only called to wish you luck.
Do you know that I am smiling now as I remember that time, when I called you by your full name, and you turned around, smiling as though you had been waiting for it?
Do you know that I can't remember when was the last time you called me by name?
Do you know that at the exhibition, I waited right till the end, waited until I realised that you wouldn’t be presenting your work to me?
You know, I am not really used to your long hair.
You know, every time I try to leave, the you in me seem to get jealous and cry. And I will turn back, only to find you gone.
Maybe I have been picked by God to be your tavern, a shelter for you to rest when you are tired, someone to help you on your way.
One day, when you have found someone who understands you more than I ever will, who loves you more than I ever will, when you don’t really need me anymore, you will leave me.
Until then, I ought to be always there for you, as I had promised.
Only I can’t. Not anymore. I will be far away.
I am sorry.
He shouldn't have read it because it wasn't meant for him. The owner of the blog had probably written it, in the vain hope that whoever it was meant for would somehow stumble upon it, or simply because he knew that she read his blog. Anyhow, he simply couldn't resist reading the whole entry.
She should let him go, he thought, as he clicked to go to the next blog.
You should let me go, he realised.
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