A Daylight Series

I wrote this last year. I realized I've only uploaded them on IG stories. I started this series as an experiment; I was writing based on a word/ phrase, 1 in the morning, 1 at night. I ended up doing this for only a couple of days, and lost the will to continue on. Nevertheless, I'd like to share with you what I had done, in its raw, unedited form. I have not edited these writings since, despite the fact I can definitely improve on them, in terms of clarity, style, theme, grammar, etc. But, in truth I don't really care lol. Enjoy.

Day 1: 4th November 2020

Word Prompt: lovely

In a house, people would regularly enter and leave. The house can be sold to another family. The house can be reconstructed or renovated. But what remains, is dust. When someone has passed on, he or she is cremated. And what remains, is nothing but particulate matter. Dust. When World War II began, bodies were strewn across many countries, buildings were blown up. And yet dust still remains, unhinged by how humans travel through time.

You are now in your room. It is in a mess. Books scattered throughout your table and even on the floor and underneath your bed. You feel a dryness or stillness. Like as if time has been rendered irrelevant. The windows are closed, like you’re in a jail cell. You pick up some of the books, and find something between them. You look around underneath your bed and yet again find more of the same thing. You glance at the shelves you haven’t cleaned in a long time, or the frames with pictures of family in them. You see a familiar friend. Dust, clinging onto everything you own, blurring the images of your family members and past acquaintances.

So you will probably decide to do something about this. A vacuum cleaner will do the trick, or some wet wipes. For him, he has decided to let him stay. To let him take control. He is exhausted, and he wants to try an experiment. And as he stares at the amalgamation of dirt particles, hair, cotton encapsulating what he owns, he can remember how over the course of a few months as the dust accumulates in his room, his father would get more agitated and lash out more frequently on him and his mother. Or how he remembers his best friend coming over to his place and having a great time with him, only because how the dust in his room would swirl in the air when he engaged in a childish wrestle with him, only to ask him to leave soon after because he had other matters he wanted to attend to.

It is almost as if human interaction has become secondary, or meaningless to him. It is too late into his life to right the wrongs of the past. But it is also a sort of a silver lining. For now, when his body is weak, and his soul wounded, he can just lie down, and relax. But more importantly, relax and just look at the dust that surrounds him. A gift box of emotions has been offered to him during this crucial moment in his life. And all he has to do, is open it, and the box will do the rest. He cries, he laughs, he smiles, he panics, he lashes out, he claps. Little did he know how much of an alien he seemed to be. Or how much humanity he actually had in him. But now, as if the box had some sort of spell, he now suddenly feels whole. But at the cost of the friends he lost or the relationships he ruined along the way. His spirit was determined. But of what purpose is a determined spirit if it itself is critically wounded in the first place? But he realises that now he can finally be the person he strived to be, freed from his own shackles, even if it may be too late.

How lovely is it that something is so despised by many and so desired to be disposed of, and yet is the fundamental reason that he lived?

How lovely indeed.

Day 2: 5th November 2020

Word Prompt: fruit

He didn’t remember anything significant occurring before this. But he felt strange when he woke up on Sunday. He rose from his bed, and for some reason he gently pressed his fingers on his face and lips. He slowly rubbed eyes softly and hesitantly. Maybe a bad dream. He focused on his hands, then looked to see a woman lying next to him. He does not totally recognise her, but she was there for a reason.

A notebook sat on the table next to him. A pen was placed on top. He reached for the pen and flipped to the first page. He read the first few pages, to which his eyes squinted, for he did not remember what he had written. Maybe drunk or in a bad (maybe even weird) mood, he was not sure and he could not remember. But nevertheless he began to write on a new page. “I got up from bed, and I saw this notebook…….” “It feels strange waking up in this house. I’ve never felt that way…….”

The wind began to howl. He turned to look outside, and saw snow. It rarely snowed this time of the year: July 2nd. But in the distance as he squinted he saw something. An outline. And for some reason his heart stopped pumping and he held his breath for a few seconds.

“Why do I feel attracted and taken aback by this thing in the distance at the same time?” He wrote. “But I feel like I need to find out.”

He didn’t want to wake her up, so he slowly lifted the blanket and tiptoed his way out. At the front door, he realises that he had no jacket or coat. But he had his pencil and notebook in his hands. He looked through the glass section of the door. And there it was again in front of him.

“There it is again.”

He does not change his clothes, and pushes the door open and was welcomed by a gush of snow, to which he recoils back slightly. He gazes afar through the blinding storm, contemplating, standing rooted to the ground.

“This storm is holding me back.”

He then took a step. And another step, fighting through the storm. And after countless steps, he still had not reached what he saw. But he kept the notebook close to him. He began to get cold, distant from the house he left. Distant from the sleeping woman. He started to breath heavily as he was bombarded by snow particles knocking him off-guard every now and then.

“I feel lonely now.”

His legs began to weaken. He looked down and realised that his legs grew thinner by the second, rendering to just the bone. He raised his arms and noticed a similar occurrence. He strode through the snow turned into shorter and shorter steps. And in the background, he suddenly heard singing. A familiar female voice. A girl’s voice. A familiar melody.

“I recognise this voice, it sounds li……..”

He stopped in his tracks. His knees gave way as he collapsed on the ground. He looked down, hypnotised by the purity of the snow. He then looked forward, vision blurred by his tears, as he regained focus on what lay ahead of him. And hauling himself from the ground, wiping his tears away, he began to take more steps, with each step growing firmer and longer. He could barely see through the snow, but yet he continued, not even really remotely sure of what he was moving towards. Tears started streaming down, his muscles became sore, his head started to ache, and yet he still kept walking. Unable to keep his eyes open, he shut them tight, grunting as he toiled on through the winds.

And with a final, large step, the snow suddenly died down. The wind stopped howling. And he was not suddenly enveloped by warmth. He opened his eyes, and realised he was indoors. But not in the house. The floor, walls and ceiling were lined with wooden planks. The cabin was empty, except for something in the middle. He turned behind to be met by the front door. He took cautious steps towards the middle, and tried to put his focus on what was there. And as if with some sort of revelation, he started to giggle. That giggle turned into quiet laughter as he picked up the snow-covered pencil (but not the one he owned) from the ground, with his head tilting as he examined the lead and the wood.

He gripped it hard as his laughter turned hyena-like, like he was witnessing something shocking, depressing but joyful. He laughed, and laughed and laughed, gripping his notebook tighter and tighter, crumpling the paper on which he so studiously wrote on. And all of a sudden he took in a deep breath and let loud a roar, a sudden shift from what he was doing before. And with all his might and strength he took the pencil by his left and right hand, letting go of the notebook and broke the pencil into two. The wind howled at that exact moment. And as he stared into the wall, trying to slow his breathing, his fingers loosened as the pencil dropped to the ground. His breathing returned to normal, and a smile manifested itself on his face.

I haven’t seen him since then. That’s probably good. He didn’t leave anything behind. He burned everything else he owned. Including his notebook. And what remains, is the pencil drawing of a cabin that my daughter drew.

My wife died in childbirth.

Fruit: the result of work or actions, esp. if pleasant or successful.

The End

Note: the notebook was needed because he needed to write down his feelings such that he can continue in life after his daughter died and his wife left him, unable to handle the tragedy.

Day 4: 7th November 2020

Word Prompt: needle

Inspired by: Tenet

“Where is it?” He didn’t have time to think about it.

Day 5: 8th November 2020

Word Prompt: allow

Andrei Tarkovsky once said how Man is dependent on nature. Nature is the main controller of life. So what gives man the permission to control nature? To become nature? It has been oft-quoted how man destroys nature. When is nature going to unleash its full energy? Surely nature is more confident and determined than this. I am for one exhausted with humanity, the emotions, the greed, the lust, all of it. It is pure lack of intelligence to assume a human has never experienced any of the previously mentioned. Humans are weak. So why the wait? Maybe nature is giving them a chance. A chance at redemption. But I say get over it. They made their mistake long ago. History has already shown to never to mess with nature. It’s like there is a throne that nature occupies, and humans want to claim that throne.

Nature will not allow it.

I will not allow it.

Day 7: 10th November 2020

Word Prompt: needy

How would you react if a man dressed in an ostentatious manner, approaches you, head facing downwards, and mutters the words, “I am needy. Help me?” I would probably high five him and reply with a smile, “Same here!”

Day 8: 11th November 2020

Word prompt: attractive

He occasionally zoned out (usually out of his conscious control). His eyes and face locked on the back of her head, though he did not intend to do so. But nevertheless he continued to gaze. It would be cliché to describe her hair silk-like, but it is such an appropriate word. Each strand glistened under the light above him. And as she shook her head, each strand started to swirl. She handled each strand with care as she wrapped the band around them. Such inconvenience to handle such a thing! But as exemplified in some movies he had watched, it probably is quite effective. Quite attractive he would say.

He needed to sleep afterwards.

Now and Forever