To eat your name for dinner means I wake up with the Ocean’s rage in the crevice of my guts. The movement inside crashes into my organs. My heart, reverberates an incomprehensible dissonance of beats and rhythm. My lungs, slowed down by Chaos and Confusion, dance like little girls with two left feet. one. two. three — a waltz gone too fast.
To eat your name for dinner means I hold on to my sheets and cry out in pain as little stars escape my mouth. These stars do not fly out gracefully but fall on my sheets like defeated warriors. I shiver lightly from fatigue and nausea. I do not count theses celestial beauties instead I abandon them without a choice.
Another wave of movement inside me forces me to curl up into a ball. Pieces of the moon in its sheer silvery sheen make its grand exit out in such haste that my tears were not able escape my eyes in time.
A splitting pain and emptiness inside me gives birth to a strange light that stays with me and lingers… long enough to blind me.
I eat your name for dinner and awake throwing up the universe.
please. i need time. i want this to run smoothly. the universe, despite its omnipotence, demands so much. i am not made of rubber. i am stardust, and tears, and mistakes.
Every night I wish only that you would be mine. This I always shyly and cautiously leave hanging in the air. Only the stars and the leaves that rustle by my feet bear witness to my desperation – my pathetic contradictions.
Every night the moon watches me and drowns my plea with its silvery moonlight. I watch my shadows dance beneath the lamppost as I whisper my request out into the world.
The moonlight does not falter. It seeps through my very being. It fills me up and empties me.
Unlike the fragments of light that escape the clasp of leaves and branches, my wish will not reach the Gods.
Every night I whisper your name out into the world in the hopes of having you closer to me. In exchange, a piece of you is taken by the Gods as my own special atonement.
My heart tells me I should stop. My mind urges me forward.
Tell me, will the moon ever run out of light?
“Not everyone has to be the Chosen One. Not everyone has to be the guy who saves the world.”
Mikey, Henna, Jared, and Mel try to survive the remaining days of their high school life while the rest of their peers, the “indie kids” go into battle with the Immortals. The book pretty much shows how the lives of those who were not chosen to do great things (the premise being that there is such), still continue to live and solve their own mess.
Of all the main characters and their troubles, I loved Jared the most. Jared who until the end of the novel, just remained selfless, simple, and humble inspite of his God lineage. I also loved that his personality was a huge contrast to his physique and his genealogy.
As for whether I enjoyed the book or whether I would want a copy on my shelf, the answer is no. I did not enjoy how it was written nor the fact that the narrator, a seventeen year old boy called Mikey who was suffering from OCD, despised his mom’s egocentrism without noticing his. I didn’t enjoy the abrupt change of scenes and how it ended with the Immortals being defeated quite suddenly.
Someone told me that I would be able to relate well with this book. I guess she thinks I’m like the main characters and that I just live here. As snotty as it sounds, I don’t think any one of us are chosen to do “greater” things. We’re all just pretty much similar despite our differences and indifferences.
I knocked on my old closet door and waited for that hushed hesitant answer. I opened the door sand told them they were free. My skeletons looked at me with fear and questioning in their eyes. I pulled them out and set them free. I told them that it was not fair that they had to be hidden there for years. For a few seconds they just stared until one by one they stood up and made creaking noises while they moved out.
I waited until the last one took the courage to move cautiously away from the closet doors. When they were all gone, I looked at the closet and blew the dust away. I sighed and moved inside the closet and shut the doors firmly.
Woke up to the piercing cold and the first thought that engulfs me is whether I am dead. Am I dead? I shout it out to the Darkness but only the shrill, crisp air retaliates.
I peek at the world through the heavy windows of my soul. Sleep still palpable. My room, like my heart, has been swallowed up by Darkness. Am I dead? I ask again. My words fall on dust covered books and crumpled paper. They pile up inside half-empty mugs and stale clothes plastered on my ancient mahogany floor.
I sit ever so slowly, pull my knees to my chin and let a tear escape. I am not dead, God. I am not dead. If I listen really carefully, I could hear my heart knocking inside me. I can will myself to blink. I cannot be dead.
I let myself sink back into the bed as I listen to the minutes being ferried off. The ticking sound tells me that I am moving toward the inevitable but it also tells me that I have somehow reached another side of this inevitable.
I push the blanket off me and inch my way ever so carefully out of the bed. Before I even leave the bed, I could tell that I have left it even before the piercing cold kills me.