001. Fog
[When looking through a foggy mirror you can barely make out the outline of your body; it's almost like the colours and shapes that make a human are temporarily bleeding out. We are blurry and indiscernible right after we cleanse ourselves from a day of monotony and false pretenses....]
The clock stuck midnight, initiating the start of a new day. For Carwyn it meant that he had less time allotted for him in the pub. Only two more hours before he would have to shimmy his way out. It wasn't that he was an avid drinker, or that he was accompanied by some friends, no, Carwyn was almost always sober and alone. Tonight he stumbled into the pub slyly named the Illusionist, in an attempt to escape the stark walls of his home. He planned to jot down some of the thoughts that he had that week. Most of it was a yammering monologue of his observations, which included the morning he almost shattered the bathroom mirror with his forehead. What stopped him was the reflection that mirrored his exact emotions: confusion and lack of identity.
Carwyn was a man of escapism. Often he sought out the refuge of places unknown, people he had never met, and adventures he would never find back at home. More often than not his running away landed him in a corner of a dimly lit establishment. Sometimes people would stare, wondering what things of importance was the young man frantically writing about. Usually the curiosity would die out before he was ever approached physically. In a way he was relieved, in others he was disappointed. Would he ever find that moment in time where he was completely enchanted by the essence of another?
[The bartender looks my way, though she does it so timidly. Her eyes never wander farther than the edge of the table. Maybe she feels that I won't notice, or than I can't sense her desire from such a far distance. I'd like to meet eyes but I'm sure I'd break away before she gets a good reading on me.]
The worn journal he was writing in had some history attached to it. But like any good origin story it was kept well hidden. In the binding there were signs of Celtic symbolism, and a single thread of white silk that held everything in place. Carwyn longed to be well put together. He wanted to be a singular work with no loose ends to speak of. It wasn't perfection he sought out for. It was unity, clarity, a want to be whole. But he knew he was fallible and that there were far too many strands that couldn't be bound. He was incomplete.