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Sometimes affection is a shy flower that takes time to blossom.
Sometimes, however, such flower never exist from the beginning.
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My Honest Voice
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¡§The urge to jump off,¡¨ I said.
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She watched the workers across the street thoughtfully. Her hand raised and smoothed the flying hair. ¡§Those poor souls better be far from considering suicides,¡¨ she said. ¡§It¡¦s too easy for them.¡¨
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¡§It¡¦s easy for everyone,¡¨ I replied, pausing, getting back. ¡§And hard.¡¨ I took a bite from my sandwich and chewed. We continued to watch the workers silently. Their shirts were stained yellow and dusty. Faces sweating, backs in pain, yet so focused on their work. ¡§If I want,¡¨ I said abruptly, ¡§I can jump off right here.¡¨ I turned to her. ¡§It¡¦s easy. We¡¦re on third floor¡Kalthough I¡¦d rather jump from a taller building. Maybe with some forty floors, like those in downtown.¡¨
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¡§But it¡¦s hard.¡¨
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¡§But it¡¦s hard,¡¨ I repeated her, lifting my head and watched the gray-blue sky. It was as if raindrops were expected in any moment. How far is the difference between a cloudy day and a rainy day? All the same to me.
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¡§Which song is it that goes, ¡¥even if I could it¡¦d all be grey¡K¡¦?¡¨ she suddenly asked. She was watching the same thing as me. The sky. It¡¦s always grey in the winter.
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¡§Thank You,¡¨ I said, ¡§by Dido.¡¨
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¡§Right,¡¨ she said. Her eyes seemed to have reached beyond those workers. ¡§Nice song, huh? How it goes, ¡¥Oh, just to be with you¡Kis having the best day of my life¡K¡¦ ¡¨ Her voice trailed off as we both gazed at the sparrows flying across the sky. They chirped with the sounds of machines just across the streets.
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¡§Best moment, rather,¡¨ I said. The chilly wind blew and pierced our cheeks, now red and froze up. But we didn¡¦t care. Even if our scarves fly off with that dancing wind, there¡¦ll be a mere cry, a mere haste, a mere whine, and be it.
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We went silent. The workers were still working, restlessly and vigorously, just across the street. The wind turned and twirled, cracked and cackled. The trees whispered the sounds of wind, of rain, of wintry blazes. Only heard by us, and no one else.
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That guy over there was reading his comics again. He curled up in his seat like a creature in the cold. He wouldn¡¦t sit. He would only curl. How hard was it to make a presentable posture? Or to produce a presentable child. That dude was a mess. I hated his glasses. Those two round lenses with a thick black frame made him look totally idiotic. Pathetic, foolish little guy.
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My stomach grumbled. Its throat completely dry yet forced to do so. Its yells were heard, by myself, yet avoided, for the time was not right. It wasn¡¦t time for my poor stomach¡¦s concert yet. So my pencil sang with it. It glided across the paper, fast and quick, detached and lively, in staccato and vivacity. It danced, lines and lines, across from left to right, and up, and down, in a movement of gracefulness, but agitatedly, all so fast and quick.
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The old man flipped his newspaper. He sat at his desk, glasses on, chin on hand, eyes gazing at those pages and pages of ridiculous newly known facts that are strangely called ¡§news.¡¨ My fellow mates were as if children of his, all so quiet, all so silent, all so drown into their own little world, but as if. Some duplicates, mimicking, imitating.
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And so suddenly it went the bell. Something shifted, as if the Earth has just made its turn and forced us into the shadows. The masks were put off back on shelves. Blabbermouths, words, and teenagers, they all work together. The atmosphere was flying, twirling, speeding, and spinning around, revolving and changing, and turning and rotating, it was running. And my pencil could not stop. It fluttered and trembled and swirled and spun. And turning and changing, soaring everywhere. I quivered and shivered, biting on my lip and blinking at that brightness that came so abruptly, and so suddenly. None of those crazy words flying through the air had made sounds more beautiful than pages flipping and my pencil gliding. They broke the magic.
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