Saturday, April 3, 2010

LRT (freewriting)

The red and yellow strings were loose when I looked down at them, and the soles squeaked noisily against the wax-stained floor, back and forth, back and forth. The roars of jeeps and trucks below transfigured into muffled sighs, traveling up the semi-weathered concrete of the structure, as if it were some kind of pipe, sound bites sliding up its hollow body.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

The red and yellow—or gold?—strings were undone. When did I first learn to tie my shoes? I stooped, hearing my heart throbbing in my ears, synchronized with the tick-tocking of place’s clock. And it came, rushing like a bullet and slowing into an ugly stop.

I marched in, squeezed myself between the little gaps, those spaces the human caves made. The air conditioner churned every scent imaginable. Sweet sweat, sour perfume, bitter apathy of every breathing flesh. I inhaled, quite disgusted, and inhaled some more. Do you know how pleasant it is to be able to breathe? In, out, in, out. I saw an image of the respirator in my mind, and continued to inhale. A gift it is, to be able to breathe.

The metal box was trembling, the lids sliding open, people rushing out back to their lives again. I leaned against the handrail, read some poetry—Instituto Cervantes, eh?—they put above the seats. I murmured to myself, pronouncing the words, appreciating. I looked down and found the red and yellow strings loose. Again. And then I felt your stare.

And there you are—little doll, perfect for this little container. Color me intrigued. Book in hand, fingers stopping in mid-movement, dark pupils tumbling up, brows rising to your hairline. Still have batteries? Or do I need to twist that steel key behind your back to make you move again? You stared and tilted your head, as if I were an off-kilter painting. Little marionette without strings, why are those eyes so empty?

I kneeled and tied the red and yellow strings, hummed in my mind: happiness is tying your shoe for the very first time. Do you know that song? I raised my head, nodded in your direction, flashed a smile—a supposed smile, which I think turned into a grimace of pain. I saw you squint.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

You shut the book, slid the magnetic card in the middle, an instant bookmark. You glanced at the poems above my head, then let those eyes travel on me as if I were a continuation of that poem. Am I a poem?

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

“Three years? Four years?”

I shook my head despite myself, your voice an echo from an illusion. “No, an infinity. And guess what—it ended.”

You frowned. I smirked.

The box shook to a halt and I let myself be carried by the flow of people, out—Central Terminal, Central Terminal—and I took the image of you with my mind’s camera. The tousled hair, as if fresh from a dream; skin translucent, as if faded by time. And those eyes, shallow and empty, inhabited by ghosts of our yesteryears. Why be sad?

I watched you through the inch-thick mirror doors, you trifling toy, as your container slugged forward, wheels creaking. You were gone in a flash. Another eternity has passed.

I looked down and saw my shoestrings loose again. Red and yellow—scarlet or gold, whatever. I tied them in a tangle and I glanced up at the clock.

Tick, tock, tick, tock—eleven thirty-five. I was late for class.


Note: I know there are a few grammar errors there, but what the hell, this is just free writing. It does help one conquer the writer's block (though this material I've produced is nowhere near usable for what I'm really planning to write: fanfics. *le sigh*). Anyway, at least I've somehow killed time. Story review for Smoke and Mirrors later. :D

(from Wiki) Free writing — also called stream-of-consciousness writing — is a prewriting technique in which a person writes continuously for a set period of time without regard to spelling, grammar, or topic.

No comments:

Post a Comment