sometimes i wonder why i am here
not in the heavy way
just in the quiet
curious
almost tender way.
the world feels too big for me
and yet somehow
i fit inside it
like a small note tucked into a vast book.
maybe existence is not meant to make sense.
maybe it is just a series of soft moments
held together by breath
by chance
by the tiny choices we make
while trying to be gentle.
i think about how strange it is
that i am alive at all
sitting here in this exact moment
feeling something i cannot name
and letting it pass through me
the way light moves across a room.
maybe that is enough.
to exist quietly
and feel deeply
and let the universe figure out the rest.
A shudder ran through the hull of the boat, twisting the individual planks almost to breaking point. There was an unsettling presence in the brig. Nameless. Formless. Powerful. Calico drew into himself, shivering for a reason he couldn’t quite name. Amrita’s rigging audibly creaked from above, her sails barely moving in the bright, clear morning.
Calico stood, seasoned seafaring legs only just supporting him. He tried to take a step forwards, but it felt like walking through egg whites. The atmosphere was viscous and forbidding. Every noise was deafeningly loud in the foreboding silence. Every footstep felt like a death sentence.
Like a curse from times better left forgotten.
Amrita sat terrifyingly still in the water. Held by huge hands, far stronger than her flimsy oak hull. Out in the open sea, the water was so still that every breath of wind sent visible ripples across it. The entire boat – nay, the entire ocean – seemed to be holding its breath. Waiting for something. For the presence to reveal itself.
Calico hadn’t even realised he’d been holding his breath. He had made his way up to the deck, but the view of a shockingly clear sky did nothing to soothe his nerves. He was visibly on edge – not that there was anyone around to see it. He shuddered, and following a whim he couldn’t place the origin of, he whispered in a voice hoarse from tiredness,
“Is anyone there?”
Somehow, defying all reason, Amrita became stiller. As though the presence in the boat had tensed. The anger in the air was palpable, and Calico could feel it even through the hazy fog of sleep deprivation. There was a sharp, tense vibe in the air so intense Calico could almost taste it. Mingled with the salt and fish in the air there was something far more sinister.
Something Calico couldn’t find a name for, no matter how hard he tried.
The nameless, faceless presence remained tense, and Calico had to resist the urge to turn around sharply.
There’s no one behind you, he reminded himself, you’re alone at sea; no one else is here.
Then a sensation, like dripping egg yolk down his back. The back of his neck tingled and he spun around to find nothing but an empty deck. Of course. What were you expecting? Then there was a noise, like a song without words. Wailing. No matter how hard Calico strained, he couldn’t hear it any better. It seemed to come from inside him, like a memory rather than an audible sound. But he had never heard the song before.
He never wanted to hear it again. It felt like fingernails down a chalkboard. The cries of the damned as they’re sentenced to hell. There was no empathy in the noise, as though whatever was making it had lost its humanity a long time ago. If it ever had any humanity to begin with.
It was there, nameless, voiceless. A disembodied sense of wrong. Calico tensed, waiting in anticipation for something he knew was coming.
There was no noise as he died. Nothing to disturb the perfect stillness of the morning. Bright sunlight washed over Amrita as her captain lay, motionless, on her deck. Seagulls had begun to circle above.
“… and a one, two, three, one two three, one two three…”
The dance instructor’s voice, coupled with the soft, rich tune of an old grand piano, is drifting amicably through my apartment floor.
Usually, the noise would be relaxing, but today? Today I have an English paper due at midday, an empty brain, and the attention span of a goldfish. Not even an intelligent goldfish. One of those goldfish that just stares out its bowl at everything with a stupid look on its face.
Every distraction is damning, so even though usually I’d welcome the sound of people learning to dance in the studio I live above, but today all I want to do is scream at them.
I know this is silly – how dare these people consider learning a new skill when I’m sitting here, rotting in the seventh circle of hell, desperately trying to squeeze ideas out of a brain that ran out years ago. It’s futile, and I know it, but I can’t just give up. I have a story to write. 5000 words of ideas I need to come up with.
By midday.
Looking at the clock would be an awful, awful mistake, so I resist the urge for as long as I possibly can – about 20 seconds. It’s 9am. I have 3 hours to write this story, print it off and hand it in for a grade. I do some mental arithmetic and figure out just how impossible it is – 28 words a minute and I’ll be done just in time. But first I need an idea, and I’ve got nothing. I’ve had nothing in my brain for three weeks, since this assignment was given out. My mind had been alternating back-and-forth between no motivation and no ideas in an elaborate dance for weeks now.
Thank god I can always count on last-minute panic to think of something – this time, it’s a girl. She dances, but only because her parents want her to. She’s trapped by responsibilities, never able to discover her real passion. This is a great idea!
Well, no, it’s not. But it’s the idea I have, and I really need to get started on writing this. The piano has picked up a livelier beat and as I’m writing I imagine the quick, rhythmic fingers tapping on the keys downstairs are my own. I’m tapping out a much more frantic beat, but it’s a nice illusion to keep me going. Maybe if the keys on my laptop made music when I pressed them I’d have more motivation to write.
Dancing, dancing, dancing. Dancing fingers, dancing tunes downstairs. Suddenly the tune stops but my fingers keep dancing and - when did it get to be 11:30?!?!?! I look at my word count – 4500. I might just make it by the deadline, but I need to hurry.
4899 words. Close enough. I snatch my story off the printer and sprint. I’m flying down the stairs, across campus, puffing. There are people dancing in the park outside my lecture building. I’m dancing through the revolving doors blocking me from the submission spot and then finally it’s done. I’m finished. I can go home and sleep, thinking about the qasi-masterpiece I just handed in.
Well, why I'm even colour editing product photos is a mystery to me. Or why I even spent ANY time giving a shit about a badly shot phone photo, because I am now seeing folks straight up shitting on people who are getting it "wrong."
Though some people:
"What color is the dress that you see there?"
"Black and blue."
"No. It is white and gold."
—Gul Madred's interrogation of Jean-Luc Picard
One thing I said in my earlier, now deleted, post is: this is why it is a bitch to edit product photos for the web. Anyway,
You look like a techno hacker villain from some modern Die Hard-esque movie. That's meant as a compliment.
That is the BEST compliment.
Actually, here is a related snippet from something I wrote two years ago but never posted:
One of the key things about existentialism is that the world you create is true to yourself and who you are. So, if I wanted to be a va-va-voom blonde, I have to understand that's not going to happen without a quality wig and Ru Paul level padding.
When I was a kid, I loved John McClane. He was the coolest dude ever. I wanted to be John McClane when I grew up and I never stopped wanting that, I kept it as a goal.
As you can see, I've landed more on the side of Hans Gruber's smaller, feyer cousin, but I'm cool with that as it's within the tolerances of Die Hard.
