Spiraling Melody Of Light

Not much time really passes when you're lying awake at night, the ceiling fan's blades, slightly rusted at the edges, rotate seemingly in slow motion. You can't really help but think "whoong, whoong, whoong" as the blades turn, and turn, and turn.

Laying there thinking, about the troubles you're facing, thing you worry about, someone you care for, what the future holds, who you are, are you just another speck in this vast world? It makes no sense sometimes. They told us life was supposed to be great, but yet here we are doing things that mean nothing, things that mean nothing that people have placed too much emphasis and too much faith into; and yet here we are, not even sure of what we're fighting for.

I wonder sometimes, maybe we cling on to our devices, phones, mp3 players, iPods and the sorts, because we want to know we're not alone. Maybe it's a subconscious reaffirmation, just talking to or texting that somebody over the phone, forgetting everything in drowning rock music or listening to that melancholy invoking instrumental; we are not alone.

We all wish for more to this life we're having, who really wants to spend the rest of their life labouring and worrying away. The wishful thinking is sometimes dealt with, suppressed, and yet again it will rise inevitably to the surface of our minds like cork in water. The future, what does it hold, will I be alone, what will I be doing, where will everyone else I know be in the future, who will remain my friends through storm and calm; is it all fated? I don't know, but someone once told me that life is not worth worrying away.

People like security, but that's just a nice way of saying people are boring. Badminton club, basketball club, football club; what happened to archery, fencing, dodgeball and whatnot? Language clubs, nature society, noble endeavours indeed, but really, if you're going to be like everyone else, why live? Such are the thoughts that leave one a little depressed, but it can't be helped....

Right?

Go to sleep, hug your pillow and make it warm; dream of a possible future, another reality. See the spiraling light that enters your mind and shelters your soul; hear the silver melody that rings clearly yet softly, and pray that it is eternal.

Live.

Creation

It is in 17th century Germany on a nameless street, just another day begins as the rising sun paints the entire street like a sepia photograph. Inside one of the houses with identical facades, a man in his late 20's performs his craft. Holed up in his workshop upstairs labouring away at his creation, the golden sun rays shine through the windows of his workshop; there is little sign on the man's face to indicate that he had been up all night at his work. On his immaculate countenance an elegant smile is etched, a mirror of the enjoyment, fulfillment and pride he takes in his work. Perhaps he does not call it work at all.

The dollmaker pours over his intricate equipment, and yet he seems perfectly poised and at home with his surroundings, his nimble fingers efficient and never hesitating. It is hard not to be inspired by wonder watching a craftsman at work, even more so for the nameless dollmaker; it is clear that money is not his motive. What makes him tinker over all that material and turn scraps into something beautiful?

Perhaps there is a love of his who inspires him, perhaps a child; perhaps something lost to him, perhaps a longing? There he stays in his little bubble of timelessness immersed in the passion for his work. So noble and passionate his work that time itself could not bear to take him away in her tide. And all that is of him is stowed away in a tiny fragment of reality, floating around in the space of existence. Forever immortalized.

The dolls born of his hands that lay scattered around his workshop seem almost lifelike. With eyes glowing with emotion and faces lit with compassion that it takes conscious thought to remind oneself that they are just dolls; and yet it just seems that they would just suddenly get up and smile at you. Such love put into his handicraft, like a great desire for a child he never could have.

And as the creator walks past a doll of a girl child, it reaches out to him haphazardly, and whispers:

'Fa...ther...'

The scene fades and diminishes into the fog of thought, as if just a dream.

Inspired by Mitsumune Shinkichi's "Creation", Rozen Maiden: Träumend.