In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Celebrate Good Times.”
You receive some wonderful, improbable, hoped-for good news. How do you celebrate?
Wonderful? Yes. Improbable? No. Hoped-for good news? No, not really. Is this going to be a good time? I wonder if it is. If then, how should I celebrate? I’m not even sure if I have to.
I have been around collecting stories from one to another. Inviting people over lunch, dinner, or even breakfast to catch their precious memories and uncover their motives behind their action. I visit them with flower and smile to hear their experience over things of both I understand and not. I write my interpretation of their words here, in this very blog, a dark one or so I’m told.
There are several titles I have been writing and reading inside my head. Some of them are written here. This noon I had a call from a friend telling me a story of how one met one’s soulmate, a classic story which I never refuse to hear. I wasn’t being poetic to say something sweet or being mean to say harsh truth. One has decided to end one’s life and give oneself a chance to enter a new phase. I should know better.
Or I shouldn’t.
November 23rd, 2014 was the appointed date. Night was upon me when I decided to start a new title which I haven’t decided yet, until now. I retraced my steps from street to street, from person to person, witnessing one’s anger and curiosity, trapping myself between endless conversation of silent crowd.
The story was started by possessing a spike of certain hormones inside one’s brain. Some people like me would suspect dophamine, obviously. The other might call it a destiny of being human but I doubted it. I was hurrying myself off the train, setting myself out from the station, and climbing the stairs to nearest point. I shouted in whisper calling one’s name, whose had stories of old. After several minutes of standing enjoying the wind, one arrived at the highest level of promised building, carrying backpack and loads of either anger or curiosity. I couldn’t let myself careless.
An hour had passed and it was time to separate myself from imagination once again, embracing reality in which I was bleeding heavily and beaten to the bones. I thought of hearing some of them cracking and causing pain on every joint. I still remember the callsign one’s handed to me, until now. It should be a birthday in which I ought to offer my gratitude and greetings. I didn’t.
Now that the story has been concluded, or is nearly concluded, I need to close the book once again and realize that my time has once again passed. The book has been prepared to enter the shelf. The only thing I need to do is to put a nice, suitable title. I wonder what it would be. Something nice, gracious, simple, and humble just like the main protagonist.