Now if you're sitting comfortably, I'll tell you my own story. That thing came unexpectedly. One morning, a slightly unordinary day it was, the sun-frazzled day when I saw three instead of two albatrosses perching languidly on a tree.
On this serene morning when even the paperboy was self-conscious of making scratching noise with his bicycle, that thing encroached upon me. Like a disease and stealthily it was, it slid in from under the door and mounted up my body, a pace resembled that of a fox hovering around its prey.
Despite the intricate process of my transformation, the consequence was unarguably simple. That is, I was split into half.
It was such a pity. It certainly was. I would rather have my own replica: someone doing a send-up of me so we can laugh, talk, whisper our secrets together, like my twin brother as to say. That is presumably what people will commonly assume when they are informed of me 'splitting into half,' but no! One must understand that I do fancy companions. Although the old maxim attest to the attributions of a good company, I do find a large horde of chatty larks more tiresome than delightful.
I was born an only and not long after, a single child. Life had been bitterly lonely, especially since my ever-dutiful mother had passed away, I had cloistered myself in a dinky cottage hut, like every rabbit burrow you will read in a whimsical fairytale which you expect some furry gnomes to pop up and wave.
For short, I accept one or two friends who share my idiosyncrasies, who can put up with my volatile temper. I accept friends but not him.
I would love to make my story more novel, more esoteric, if I were a writer, bestowed with ingenious yarn-spinning talent. I personally relish upon Dylan Thomas and Emily Dickinson, with short stories I prefer Allan Poe and Borges. But once I got an opportunity to be a writer, an honest one I would see me as, and besides, my story itself was too explicit to be obscured. When the scenery is already denuded of colours, why bragging about it? Sheer hypocrisy! Idiocy!
So that day I ended up staring at him. Wry-smiled, head askew- that was what the mirror presented, with accuracy I guaranteed. I did suspect somewhat at first, but was too flabbergasted to touch the mirror. Wasn't because of my cat, whom I assumed sensed the differences too and was too eager to welcome our 'new guest,' screeched and pranced onto the mirror, and the whole escapade undoubtedly resulted in the cat's bleeding nose, wouldn't I resolve myself to take this occurrence as a rigid fact. You should always hold it to your belief that for some toiling decades of your existence in the world, something will deign to happen.
(to be continued...)
On this serene morning when even the paperboy was self-conscious of making scratching noise with his bicycle, that thing encroached upon me. Like a disease and stealthily it was, it slid in from under the door and mounted up my body, a pace resembled that of a fox hovering around its prey.
Despite the intricate process of my transformation, the consequence was unarguably simple. That is, I was split into half.
It was such a pity. It certainly was. I would rather have my own replica: someone doing a send-up of me so we can laugh, talk, whisper our secrets together, like my twin brother as to say. That is presumably what people will commonly assume when they are informed of me 'splitting into half,' but no! One must understand that I do fancy companions. Although the old maxim attest to the attributions of a good company, I do find a large horde of chatty larks more tiresome than delightful.
I was born an only and not long after, a single child. Life had been bitterly lonely, especially since my ever-dutiful mother had passed away, I had cloistered myself in a dinky cottage hut, like every rabbit burrow you will read in a whimsical fairytale which you expect some furry gnomes to pop up and wave.
For short, I accept one or two friends who share my idiosyncrasies, who can put up with my volatile temper. I accept friends but not him.
I would love to make my story more novel, more esoteric, if I were a writer, bestowed with ingenious yarn-spinning talent. I personally relish upon Dylan Thomas and Emily Dickinson, with short stories I prefer Allan Poe and Borges. But once I got an opportunity to be a writer, an honest one I would see me as, and besides, my story itself was too explicit to be obscured. When the scenery is already denuded of colours, why bragging about it? Sheer hypocrisy! Idiocy!
So that day I ended up staring at him. Wry-smiled, head askew- that was what the mirror presented, with accuracy I guaranteed. I did suspect somewhat at first, but was too flabbergasted to touch the mirror. Wasn't because of my cat, whom I assumed sensed the differences too and was too eager to welcome our 'new guest,' screeched and pranced onto the mirror, and the whole escapade undoubtedly resulted in the cat's bleeding nose, wouldn't I resolve myself to take this occurrence as a rigid fact. You should always hold it to your belief that for some toiling decades of your existence in the world, something will deign to happen.
(to be continued...)
Comments
Post a Comment