A stretch of sweet eternity.

Magic realism writing blog young adult old soul
Gif by : Unknown

I want to live forever inside that moment and never have to say goodbye.

Living life inside a raindrop of a self-contained moment, sliding down a glass window past countless other raindrops — all these other moments being had by so many others. I never want any of it to end. Instead, I want to progress slowly, gently, because that is the only way I can reach the endless places I want to be. Journeys change the destination, I believe. Running and taking a stroll to someplace make for an entirely different experience. How much of what is around us do we miss when we run, how many times is the preamble lost on us, fast-paced and erratic as we are.

The places lacking Time, devoid of it — that is where I’ve always yearned to go. These places where it feels like the world is suspended inside another dimension, like a raindrop that is just about to fall but never does, frozen in mid-air.

Eternal

That is how these moments feel. Even as they last mere seconds, barely even minutes. It feels like Life has stretched the rules of Time to accommodate this one moment, to give me this one lingering thing : a taste of eternity in a life so ephemeral.

But all raindrops fall, all moments end in puddles on the floor.

It is a long time though before we reach the end of all things.

That is what I thought as I sat in an ever-transiting bus, head laid to rest against the glass pane, night-sky hair fluttering out of the window between two glinting metal bars.

In all sweet irony, this could look like a prison. As though I were trapped in movement, in transit, in travel and liberation would be to return home, to fall into the arms of the routine waiting for me at the bus station.

I would find myself trapped in routine and travel both if I was not careful. If I did not try to find the beauty in them, to not see them as prisons. Outside of my head though, there are forces greater than my will, my perception. Forces that reroute my trains of thoughts in one single movement.

For instance, the setting sun is pouring in my eyes, as though the sky had tipped and was emptying our universe’s largest star in my irises. Bit by bit, my dark-set eyes are absorbing the light from the sun, drinking it one ray at a time until ultimately, there is nothing left to take and the sky is left in darkness.

But we are not there yet, not yet home, not yet in darkness.

Light is flowing where Time is not, and I am floating a little ways above Earth, one or two parallel worlds away from real life. And ah, what a wonderful place to be : living inside a stretch of Eternity, like a raindrop perpetually about to fall. Falling, falling, falling gently; falling like night on the city.

 

The Wanderer’s New Year (Short Story)

“Not all those who wander are lost.” — J.R.R. Tolkien

the_name_of_the_wind_by_marcsimonetti
Art by: Marc Simonetti (Cover for the french version of ‘The Name of the Wind’)

“Hush,” he whispered to his mare, the gentle and now weary Céleste. “Easy now, Céleste.”

He brushed through her mane soothingly and in an easy movement slipped off her.

Night surrounded them on top of the hill they had climbed, millions of small stars blinking down at them. Céleste gave a proud grunt. She liked the night, it looked just like her coat of black speckled with white all over.

The sound of something being fired pierced through the silence and soon, bright sparks of red and gold formed patterns in the sky.

The small town below them was illuminated far more than normal towns usually were and in the distance, it seemed to him like an ant colony: busy, bustling, full of energy. Another few rockets exploded in the night, showering the town in streaks of pink and green lights.

“So it is already that time,” he murmured to himself “Already a year…searching, seeking out the road that promises no destination.”

“A year spent wandering,” he mused, “and what for?…Purpose? Meaning?” He sighed and looked back down the way from which he had emerged.

His eyes and voice were wistful as he spoke to no one in particular.

“But there is no place for me there. Not anymore; perhaps there never was. And so now to the road do I belong, and Time,” he looked at the bursting fireworks more intently now “does not matter here. Only the road matters. I will either reach the stars above or die on the road. I am on a journey that has perhaps no end, and yet I cannot stop. I cannot stop because it is better to wander unknowingly than to stay somewhere you do not belong.”

He stood still, watching the displays of lights and sounds with a profound sadness that only grew deeper at the sounds of loud cheers and lively music.

He remained like this a long while.

And then, as though he’d had enough, he pulled the ample hood of his long cloak back on, and Céleste’s reins in hand, marched forth into the darkness.

Young Adult…Old Soul

“But dreams are bubbles: beautiful, flimsy and with a certain habit of drifting away, far away into the sun. And I have drifted with the winds and the currents, have touched the skies and stars, possibly in sleep. I have felt nebulas bursting underneath my skin, lighting up rooms in my mind that were never before there. I have had lights and darknesses poured over me in equal measures, have had fires ignited in my heart and extinguished in the same minute. I have touched a little bit of infinity. “

sunflowergirl
Art by Narae Kim / 김나래

I never thought I would live to be an adult.

Never thought I would be roaming the Earth for as long as I have now—20 years and then some. I didn’t think I would “die young”. No, I just never saw it coming. It was all just so far away; an abstract future I told myself to not worry about just now. But I also never thought I would change, evolve, and sometimes even…bloom.

But between then and now, in that time when I was supposed to learn how the world works, how to put on make-up and make connections, I dreamed. Days and nights that were simultaneously long and short, I was tucked away in a world of my own making. And I invited a few people in sometimes. They were called Saint-Exupéry or Frost, Rowling or Tolkien, Kahlo or Jalāl ad-Dīn( Yeah, first-name basis).

But dreams are bubbles: beautiful, flimsy and with a certain habit of drifting away, far away into the sun. And I have drifted with the winds and the currents, have touched the skies and stars, possibly in sleep. I have felt nebulas bursting underneath my skin, lighting up rooms in my mind that were never before there. I have had lights and darknesses poured over me in equal measures, have had fires ignited in my heart and extinguished in the same minute. I have touched a little bit of infinity.

I have drifted back, now.

Into what turned out to be a forced landing into adulthood. I did not have the pleasure of pulling an Icarus, of reaching for the sun earnestly, of knowing how to fly and never wanting to go down again. I did not have the pleasure of loving the thrill of zeniths so much I would die in the pursuit, refusing to go anywhere but further ahead. I was not prepared, so it was not a graceful landing. I was all fumbling limbs, bruised knees and awkward words. Like when you crash a party and everyone stares at you.

The days of wandering, and indeed the days for wonder are not all lost now. But even so, adulthood comes with a few restraints. Restraints which I balk from calling shackles (For fear that is exactly what they are). Yet here I am now.  A young adult. Slightly unlike, I’ve been told (at times pityingly or with a sneer, at others kindly) other young adults I know. There are only few my age who do not find intense passions for words, spoken and unspoken, a little weird. They are not many, those who view solitude as a season to blossom, a door, an adventure.

At times too, without pretension, without arrogance—without wanting to disrupt the smooth flow of normalcy—my hand catches onto the inherent sadness of life. I breathe in the history of places, I let the dust and the memories of forgotten lives settle in. In crowds, I let the untold stories of the world wash over me. So, at times, I am older than I really am. Old, ancient, almost. And all the odder, too.

Because what a mess of many things I am.

A young adult, ambitious, eager to see the world yet unwilling to succumb to the cold, harsh ways of the adult life that comes with it.

Young, then. But also old. As if it was not enough, there is also a child’s laughter, bubbling to the surface. The world through a child’s eyes, brilliant, full of wonder, yet also eyes that are calm and a little weary, even distrusting.

The story hasn’t come to an end. Even now, as I am writing it, I watch it unfold. And I write it, I do, in part for others, and in part to reach myself.


Listening to:

The Wanderer’s New Year (Short Story)

“Not all those who wander are lost.” — J.R.R. Tolkien

the_name_of_the_wind_by_marcsimonetti
Art by: Marc Simonetti (Cover for the french version of ‘The Name of the Wind’)

“Hush,” he whispered to his mare, the gentle and now weary Céleste. “Easy now, Céleste.”

He brushed through her mane soothingly and in an easy movement slipped off her.

Night surrounded them on top of the hill they had climbed, millions of small stars blinking down at them. Céleste gave a proud grunt. She liked the night, it looked just like her coat of black speckled with white all over.

The sound of something being fired pierced through the silence and soon, bright sparks of red and gold formed patterns in the sky.

The small town below them was illuminated far more than normal towns usually were and in the distance, it seemed to him like an ant colony: busy, bustling, full of energy. Another few rockets exploded in the night, showering the town in streaks of pink and green lights.

“So it is already that time,” he murmured to himself “Already a year…searching, seeking out the road that promises no destination.”

“A year spent wandering,” he mused, “and what for?…Purpose? Meaning?” He sighed and looked back down the way from which he had emerged.

His eyes and voice were wistful as he spoke to no one in particular.

“But there is no place for me there. Not anymore; perhaps there never was. And so now to the road do I belong, and Time,” he looked at the bursting fireworks more intently now “does not matter here. Only the road matters. I will either reach the stars above or die on the road. I am on a journey that has perhaps no end, and yet I cannot stop. I cannot stop because it is better to wander unknowingly than to stay somewhere you do not belong.”

He stood still, watching the displays of lights and sounds with a profound sadness that only grew deeper at the sounds of loud cheers and lively music.

He remained like this a long while.

And then, as though he’d had enough, he pulled the ample hood of his long cloak back on, and Céleste’s reins in hand, marched forth into the darkness.