The sound of rain tapping hard on the roof and the howling wind against the window pane sound like a classical music to her nerves that stimulate all her dying senses. She looked up at him as he drifted off silently. How peaceful you are, she thought, like a sweet child unknown of the harsh blanket clouting your little playground. His shallow breathing formed a light moist against her forehead; sweet and tender with a tinge of grapes. She closed her eyes as she reminisced about how she loved it; nights spent in a cold and dark room as the two of them seek fire from each other’s touch. As though their skins are of great combination to ignite flames through a delicious friction only them could make. She gently skimmed his bare chest with her candle-like fingers, savored every inch of his flesh, every chest hair that seemed like unstrummed guitar strings. She left butterfly kisses on and felt the warmth of his soft lips. Continue reading “Butterfly Kisses”
I stare at the journal resting in my clammy and trembling hands, couldn’t summon to look in her pained eyes as guilt hits me with promises that never come to reality. Standing right now with her, at the cottage near the end of a beach boardwalk where together we smiled, laughed and shared our darkest secrets, she seems away from me—facing further in the sea. Then she turns—blank from the hints of her emotions. I pause for a moment, trying to gather words that could fit. I have no right to keep her long for nothing. Continue reading “See You Again”
I once had a conversation with someone who loves reading and has a great potential to creative writing, but the person was so reluctant into figuring out how to enrich that talent; the same thing I had felt years before I even go out and build a blog and start publishing stuff, because the idea of not being good enough frightens me. The thought of my works not being good enough for readers scares me. And no one, I’m pretty much sure of that, no one likes rejection. Whether it be for their opinion, idea or craft.
Her fingers are like compasses that knew, without even looking, where to trace displeasing marks left four years ago. One by one, slowly, they touched the fragile dotted flesh on her elbow, down to her left foot, the three coin-like keloids at her back torso and that one patch of still aching flesh on her back head. As fingers trace them, her mind races back to that very day: a Chinese man holding a rose close up to his nose, a book she just bought and the white truck. Her reconciliation knew perfectly that it was a white truck, but everyone proves her otherwise. Those things flashed frantically in her mind, making collisions of unwanted images as her body flew and concur barbarically against the hard, heated asphalt like a pile of papers scatters everywhere by the howling November wind. Before she figured it all out; before she felt pain staggering her every inch and the thick liquid spilled on the ground, consciousness was taken away from her. But she didn’t fall out of it, surely, someone must have done it for her.
‘Hi’, you said slyly yet unyielding voice I have never heard. Deterred, couldn’t find my own words but I smiled anyway. Then suddenly, it was eight years ago when all was innocence and bliss.Continue reading “Weary Knight”
I may be no artist
But let me draw you
With my own
Stroke of words
And color you
With the same passion
Running through my veins
Up unto my heart
In that way
I’d immortalise you
And the memories we’d never make
And keep the artwork
In my own
While you pass your years away
Living the life you always wanted
Living the life as if I’d never existed.
Her mind is
Nothing but a wonderful blessing
And here I am
But a blunt feather
Blown away by her endless wind
I float along the hush of her whisper
Of how grand of an angel she is
Eternally too big
And too much
To fit in
Our ordinary universe.
Halfway through, before finishing Never Let Me Go, I knew I won’t be able to start reading another book right after because I sure would be bothered—dysfunctional, even—by every bit of it.
There was only one word I’d been whispering to myself throughout my read, though, it was “melancholic”—if not at all tragic. That was me being so emotional as ever as a reader. I could go on about the technicals of the book and Ishiguro’s writing technique: conversational that makes the readers feel like they are “students” themselves. So as not to be “surprised” and bewildered when things and reasons—we all knew were being subtly revealed with clues one by one as the story wore on—have unclouded officially. How he used stream of consciousness as a device to appropriately deal with the former matter. It is something that comes close to telling a story which gives off a certain intimacy between the protagonist and its reader. It really worked out well for me.
But I don’t think that’s the whole point. The beauty and importance I found in this book is that not only can it tug at readers’ hearts, but is also a retelling (if not in the most honest and literal way) of truths about our world and how we move forward as a person included in a society, but some times we feel as though we really aren’t exactly.
(Side note: this whole donation thing kind of reminded me of Jonathan Swift’s Modest Proposal.)
Kathy, Ruth, Tommy and the rest of the “students”, I can’t help but think how unfortunate their fates were. First they live to learn and at least get a glimpse of how it really is to feel like a real human (and to test whether or not they had souls) by their guardians’ teaching of them to appreciate art—all of these weren’t told until the anagnorisis of the book. Thereafter they’d been given just enough time before training and becoming carers to explore and understand the world outside Hailsham and sort things out for themselves, which includes discovering and rediscovering things they haven’t yet known and knew all their lives without completely considering it. And finally settling in to mainly why they were made for: to donate, and “complete” by the end of their time. However I think their fates unfortunate according to my own measure stick, it was all redeemed by their bound to fulfilling the purpose of their existence.
I find this utterly melancholic as they knew all along how and what their lives should be, like it’s written in the books that can never be altered. But at the same time, I can’t help but ponder how much truth that weighs in on this story across the real situations in our lives. That we sometimes question ourselves against the gush of wind, but given no choice better than to accept and take contentment in the way the tide of fate for us is supposed to be. That love may be infinite, like how we drink in the sea view as though the waters can go on forever unbounded by mountains, but—at the very same recognition—we knew it must come to an end.
Never Let Me Go, in a fascinating manner, is so disturbing of a book that will haunt me for quite some time.