Hidamari

Fingers dance on the keyboard. Fingers slow down. What will he say next? What will she do next? Will it make sense if he does this and she does that and after a series of complex waves and doodles they meet again in the blue fields at which time he says this to her in a combination so vivid in the mind yet so deep and delicate that it wrecks the mind to think of putting it in words or whether it could ever be transcribed? The writer picks up his pen and scribbles on scrap. His strokes become stretchy and stringy. An air bubble expands in his head. Ideas vaporize where blood doesn't reach. Soon he cannot follow. He submits himself to bed. A ribbon curls and fades in midair.

Two figures walk on the street. They converse, and every here and there they say something interesting, a sentence of revelation, a neat juxtapose of words that take shape, become vivid, enlarged, expanded and lost in extreme close-up. But the two figures keep walking and the streetscape repeats itself. A speckle of consciousness calls for pause. Pause. A light cuts into the scene. The writer wakes up.

He winces at the light bulb in the ceiling. He has slept with the light on again. He knows he has not had good sleep, so he scrambles to switch it off and scampers back to bed in pursue of better sleep while the desk lamp stays on. The lamp makes a sun-puddle on his desk. A shapely shadow grazes the wall and the texture of his papers accentuates. A spirit watches over. Does he shake his head or does he reach out to touch the side of a face that is for now restful? For now, the sun-puddle does not disturb the writer. It's dark enough for him to get some sleep. In a few hours he will wake to sunlight and the chirping of birds. He will not immediately notice the sun-puddle because the sunlight will have diluted it. We pray that he doesn't notice the sun-puddle.