Tag Archives: writing

Association


This is written in one shot. Stream of conscious, boom, random, kind of, but something I wrote nonetheless. Not the best, but … ok.

In scholastic bowl, for completely random in-the-dark guesses, for whatever reason, we have a tradition of guessing “Smith,” which is pretty much never right, but it is a constancy we sit back on. It feels good: Smith. It does, but never right. Smith, and if you have watched The Matrix, you would recognize him as the one who compared humanity to a virus. A virus with a host of mother nature we are, and always feeding and begetting, replicating, reproducing, duplicating. One. Two. Four. Eight. Semelparity, exponentially, big bang, and consume we do. Like the fire in Stravinsky’s Firebird, from a small flame to one that is whirlwind cymbal dramatic, trombone blasting, piccolos screaming into the timber sparks and bombast dust. Mankind. Smith. Evolution. Only needing enough to replicate. and so we replicate, limited by not us but the medium in which we live in. Limited not by us. No, we are limited by our egocentricity, or perhaps, the heliocentricity, virus unable to spread outwards of the sun. Be we do anyways go above the heavens in some sort of self-proclaimed apotheosis, whether it is by our egos or whatever, we answer, perhaps with something completely random like a firebird. this is why as mere mortals of the Scholastic bowl team, we answer and we are wrong with “Smith,” and we’re ok with it. Because, we’re just human.

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Clockwork ~


This piece of writing isn’t going to get anywhere far so why not post it on my blog?
Hope you enjoy.  :)
————-

The sun was rising, same as always.

And the library was bereft of life in the wee morning hours. He, a boy of 16, strolled into the library’s cafe with all the intentions of finishing Cannery Row by John Steinbeck, but the drive to read escaped him as the morning crispness greeted him amicably. The coffee shop was hearty, with an array of sweets in one corner and sofas in the back.

So he plopped himself on a maroon sofa, his mind utterly transfixed upon the weavings of space, eyes wandering through focused and unfocused nothingness. The clock, with its complex inner clockwork not shown, was not at all stultifying to the boy who watched it meditatively . So he continued to look at the clock, watching life’s complexity slip ceaselessly around him like magic, like clockwork.

Life, ticking.

The life around him was equally as interesting, if not more, than his book. The clockwork pressed on, and soon the boy realized morning was slipping away; more people walked in to the shop, and the boy could see everything from the leather seat in the back. It was summer, and the library was completely devoid of teens; the boy whimpered slightly from a pang of sheer loneliness, sinking into the sofa.

He noticed the clock again. It was 10 o’clock sharp. A girl walked into the room. A very pretty girl his age, the boy might add, a rare sighting in the library during the summer. The girl dallied around, paid for a bag of chips, and left the shop. The boy in the sofa decided that the girl was looking for somebody. (Perhaps somebody special?) But the thought slipped out of his mind, and it wasn’t important. And so he picked up his book, Cannery Row, and for the first time upon entering the coffee shop, the boy in the sofa read.

He stopped promptly on page 70, distracted by the coffee shop. Gazing the clock, he realized another hour had passed without notice. People talked around him. A small blond girl in a pink dress begged her mother to buy some ice cream. A raggedy man sat next to the boy in desolation and pulled out his laptop, searching for a job. But something struck the boy as peculiar; a tall male in his teens dawdled around the coffee shop, looking for somebody. The boy in the sofa would be damned if this tall male was looking for the charming lady that came an hour before. But that would be a mad coincidence, pure serendipity.

Completely unlike clockwork of nature.

Grabbing a bag of chips, the tall male left. The boy in the sofa wasn’t sure; did the pretty girl grab a bag of chips too?

The boy in the sofa became utterly entranced by Cannery Row, by Mack and Doc and Henry, by the web of the community. An hour passed, then another hour passed as time and space of the lulling life at Cannery Row and the library gripped his mind tightly.
Four o’clock came along, and it was serene. So the boy in the maroon sofa sat in content silence, enjoying the last of his homemade coffee. Getting dark, the shadows loomed over the library’s coffee shop windows. A bit tired himself, the boy went back staring without focus. With nothing to think about, he suddenly remembered the pretty girl and the tall male. He chuckled as he figured them meeting each other would be an uncanny and ridiculous coincidence.

But alas, the setting sun illuminated the sky in beautiful auburn with a spark of thunderous violet, and the boy sat there in isolation, a bit lonely, staring at the gorgeous sky. Was the sky a creation of simple metronomic clockwork? This brilliancy of nature. It didn’t look like the undertaking of clockwork at all, but of magic. Maybe life was more than constancy. Maybe sometimes life ticks out of its steadiness and complacency. Maybe. Because sometimes, it’s truly divine.

The boy in his seat smiled and closed his eyes.

He imagined the pretty girl and tall male who both bought chips. He relaxed his hands on Cannery Row, smiled sincerely, and wished sincerely that they were looking for each other, and that they’d found themselves happiness, under the divine light. Not by the telling of a clock, but of serendipity, of the brilliance of the sun.

The boy sat up and stepped outside of the coffee shop into the cool breeze. It was dark, but the sunset still left of spark of radiance on his face.

The boy smiled and took a step briskly and zealously in the direction of the settled sun.
Life, ticking.

———-
What did you think of this?
If you have thoughts, a comment would be splendid!