When the Sandman forgets to visit you, I will hold your hand. I will wait for you to finish staring at your tea. I will trace the stars on your skin, and wait.
When my soul feels too heavy to wait for you, I will hold you close in a tight embrace and pray to God my arms would never let you go. I’ll pray my hardest.
When you run out of our room and into your own, I will not follow you. I will wait by the door and count the sound the water makes when it hears only our gravity and falls on the floor. When it feels like the air has drowned all sound, I shall make my own and wait for you. I’ll spell your name out into the world until it begs me to stop and you return.
I shall make pancakes when you come back. The way you want them to; not pale nor crispy just something in between — somewhat in the grays.
And when I can no longer remember the face of the Sandman, and can only dance to the faint memory of your heartbeat, I shall still wait for you. I will.
“Line them up like purple pansies”
I never understood what it meant. You used to say this when you lay asleep in the middle of the night.
I told you about it once and you laughed at me. I never understood what they meant — your laughter and the sentence that seemed to belong in your dreams.
I never told you about it. But I will tell you now.
The first time I heard you speak in your sleep woke me up in a haste. Your voice was clear and cold when you commanded him, her, or them to line them up like purple pansies.
I sat up and watched you sleep; waiting for you to say them again. You never did.
I heard it once more but this time you were probably in a different dream. You whispered that I should line them up like purple pansies. I was bewildered. I allowed myself to smile at your strange sleeping habit.
I moved some hair off your face and whispered back. Yes, love, I will line them up like purple pansies. I got up and turned the lights out.
I must say that I heard them countless times. Each time, was different from the other time. The only thing that remained similar was that I never understood what it meant.
I still don’t but I miss the way you say it.
“I don’t know anything about life,” cried the little boy in my class.
I was startled.
He was nine.
I was twenty seven.
We were riding the same ferry, under the same sky.
I smiled at him and told him I know nothing more about it than he does.
“Aha,” exclaimed the Cheshire Cat. His grin was so luminescent if anyone would ask, I’d say somebody hung two moons that night.
“I knew I’d find you here,” exclaimed the cat.
“– or maybe not,” he mumbled.
“What seems to be bothering you?” he inquired.
“Hmmm.. Well… I was just wondering what becomes of me if I ever disappear from this reality,” she whispered.
“Well… Let’s see. How would you like to be remembered?” asked the Cheshire Cat
“I don’t know. Just, you know — like me,” she murmured.
“Oh please!” he chuckled.
“Nobody is ever remembered just for who they are,” the Cheshire Cat continued.
“You see… we all have different eyes.”
and he vanished ever so slowly
n i g h t .
It is simple and beautiful like most Japanese literature. Reading Hiromi Kawakami’s Strange Weather in Tokyo is a lot like staring at the night sky and wondering what about it seems so fascinating.
The book is a love story that is very relatable despite its uncanny situation and plot.
An almost forty year old Tsukiko finds herself in the company of her Japanese secondary school teacher whom she barely remembers when he first approaches her.
They later on find themselves entangled in a karmic situation — meeting without making plans and without having any expectations and demands.
The book takes you on a journey of doubts and fears all in the name of love. It’s not heavily laden with societal problems and pressures, instead it focused more on the characters’ internal predicaments and fears.
The music is unchanged and yet our dance feels different — like palms that catch smoke. Stubborn smoke nestles in our air spaces which sends me gasping; while you remain indifferent as if your lungs have always been burning. I never set them on fire. It wasn’t me.
I miss the way you pluck out seeds in your heart and blow them into my insides. The flowers aren’t hiding. They have long been gone. Even weeds do not find it worthwhile to even try to exist.
We are dead.
You and I.
The fire did not kill us.
We are less fire and more dead-ice.
Yes, we are.
Sometimes I stop and just observe the current and everything else that either flows with it or go against it.
In that moment of stillness, I wonder why I’m here and if there’s anyone else noticing me in this messed-up world.
I make a splash and see that despite the hullabaloo, I have made ripples. I wonder if anyone will ever be affected by these tiny waves. I know it would be like asking for the moon to believe that it will.
I watch myself sink deeper into the sea.
In a few minutes, I shall be below see level.