he's writing on his small leather journal. flip through the pages and read about his life of two years. a bat of an eyelash for most, a speck of an otherwise lengthy lifespan. for him it is more than enough. he has a story to tell, day to day activities, no matter how insignificant they he seem.
he's neither a writer nor an artist ; it is she ( and the former soul in his body ). but him, his words are simple. his thoughts cannot mold the abstract into letters and hues, cannot transform a lump of clay to sculpted glory or begin wars with a speech.
but he writes, still, for every word is a moment's breath, held close by human bones ( not his before, but his now ), treasured. inked to memory. each story is his own until he loses his ability to link events. he remains sane.
soojung.
he mumbles her name to himself, repeats it over and over until he grasps a part of her story - springtime and floods, sunrise and sunset, an unnamed color on the bottom-left corner of a canvas made of rainbows. when the monologue dawns upon him, deft fingers and a pen ( black. it came free when he bought his journal ) move to do calculated strokes in the middle of a blank page. when he's done, he gestures for her to come closer and lifts the journal for her to see his writings. the lines are neat on thick parchment.
秀晶
❛ you would be called xiujing, where i came from. i think. easier to say. but it sounds. . . strange. not you. . . . soojung suits you best. ❜
furrowed brows, a debate brews within the confines of his mind. irony washes over. the part of him that embraced the culture of his hometown is not him. speaking and writing and thinking always came easy in his mother tongue but he was never comfortable with it. it refuses to blend with his thoughts.
the white dog by her feet stirs and yixing tries to remain composed. he reaches for the little paper cup of ddeokbokki with his other hand and tips it in her direction.
❛ —— have some. ah, have you eaten yet? ........ want to go out? ❜
@insilium