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Quick entry. I'm really moving to entry but since this isn't edited yet it goes here for now. This is an essay on fear we had to write for creative writing. (And right now a fear of mine is this not being accepted in time for the 2nd term report cards. //firstworldproblems)
So here it is~ It's actually really short and I hope to continue it when there are less time constraints. will edit soon (and really hopefully it gets accepted.)
The Eye
The floor is cold – numbingly cold – but you are unsure whether it is the numbing cold or your own numbness that you perceive as cold. Numbing cold or a cold numbness? Or perhaps the numbness to warmth.
You try to feel the floor for any distinguishable mark – an edge, a notch, a crack, a scratch from service. It felt as smooth as an eyeball in its snug socket, and this pulls a chill upon your skin, and the blood rushing through it.
Color seems frighteningly distant in the darkness. Is there even such a thing? Or was it something you imagined? Or maybe even something you thought you imagined? One of those fleeting moments when insane notions suddenly brush the hairs of your head, but then fly away just as quickly – as if only to tease – not even consenting to even a mere glimpse, nor leaving an impression significant enough to be understood. You are left with only with the knowledge that they were indeed there. Or were they?
It is now when you begin to feel the Presence. Faintly, It enters approaches with grand, soundless footsteps,
Suddenly the eye opens up to a frosted glaze and its shade of darkness seems the slightest bit less shady. You feel the quick opening motion and are a bit shaken by a few rapid blinks that follow.
Past the hazy glass, you see some minute specks of yellow grime. No, they’re golden now. The eye is getting closer. They shimmer and begin to glitter and you see gallery of constellations set to the background of what seems like an abysmal darkness. This one, shaped like a fragile yolk of an egg, weakly glittering; that, a system of stars in the form of a waterfall, continuously overflowing in the centre; and over there, you’re sure (it can’t be anything else, can it?), must be a tender breast in mid-nurse.
The eye moves closer to the constellations. They grow, but not into stars, but the lights of a city – overlooking houses, streets or maybe small playgrounds. They peer over the overtime of tired workers and the new foundations of buildings’ skeletons. Smaller ones peep from warmed windows where they eliminate the photo albums of young parents in worn sweetness. Framed in other windows are story books and other thin books. You linger here for longer than the constellations.
A mild draft brushes you and you feel the Presence once again. Its footsteps this time more quiet, more graceful than before.
Suddenly, the eye spins around the city – past the city even. (Or perhaps it is the city that is spinning around the eye?) You are brought around the giant Something at incalculable speed and catch quick glances at what moves (or maybe what stands) below. Here’s a candled cake, a certificate, a bicycles’ revolving wheels. There’s a harvested valley, then a mountain range – both of which passed in magnificent apathy.
Eventually, the revolutions seem to go too fast, and all you can see are some blurred bright colors below. They seem to grow even brighter in intensity – almost blinding now – and the source from which they spew begins to spew more aggressively. In the haze, it amazes you that you can still make out some scenes. The cap of an athlete, or maybe a scholar; a starched suit or skirt, and the glow of golden years, among other things. You wonder briefly when this slideshow will end, but only briefly. Each picture brushes the eye lightly and in the haze you can almost hear the sound of fine glassware’s’ clang – or maybe those are lost rings in thinned clothes.
Then, all of a sudden small winds come in steady rhythm. The Presence, for a moment, seems to fail Its stealth. It quickly recovers, but it’s too late and you know where it is, not precisely, but you can feel it creeping about you, it’s light ferocious claws drawing closer and closer. The air you breathe is freezing – its frosty hold, tightening within your chest as each breath comes in like an icicle.
The eye finally blinks and almost as quickly as the spinning began, you start to lag. You can perceive colors – still blurred, but in a different blur. They are no longer blurred paths and you can make out their figures now, but not completely. The colors are dulling, but so gradually that the change is almost unperceivable. Here’s the shape of a creased hand, stretching itself with a slight twitch; and there are the wheels of salvaged mobility.
The Presence is around you now. You can almost feel Its cold breath around you, but it mixes with the coldness of the environment and you can’t be sure. You tell yourself there is no escape, and this fate had been set for you – set for all – since the birth of the sun.
The sun.
You try to remember pictures from your revolutions, with much exertion. You pull strings of memories but you pull too hard and they break as strings, bringing not even the shell of a memory with them. You try again to bring back the colors. Some – very few – come and you try to paint back the memories with this small palette. Is this shape right? And you can only paint forms as solid as the last few visions of the eye.
It’s on you now. Its teeth are not as slimy as you had thought, and not they hang over your head. You stand on its tongue and feel – so alien now – some touch of warmth, that unfreezes your feet and back just slightly. The Presence screeches a strangely muffled scream. It’s almost as if it were coming from outside this colossal closing jaw. You wonder how strange a screech it must be: a warning after the attack, but that must make perfect sense, but not to her right now.
The screech gets louder and louder and it’s almost blaring into the now small opening of the mouth.
“Wake up!” You are jerked back into your room in one swift, aggressive motion. You are in your bed, staring at this stranger with even stranger familiarity. “You’ll be late.”
You recognize the figure now and put two feet on the floor. You blink at the mild light of a meek October dawn.
So here it is~ It's actually really short and I hope to continue it when there are less time constraints. will edit soon (and really hopefully it gets accepted.)
The Eye
The floor is cold – numbingly cold – but you are unsure whether it is the numbing cold or your own numbness that you perceive as cold. Numbing cold or a cold numbness? Or perhaps the numbness to warmth.
You try to feel the floor for any distinguishable mark – an edge, a notch, a crack, a scratch from service. It felt as smooth as an eyeball in its snug socket, and this pulls a chill upon your skin, and the blood rushing through it.
Color seems frighteningly distant in the darkness. Is there even such a thing? Or was it something you imagined? Or maybe even something you thought you imagined? One of those fleeting moments when insane notions suddenly brush the hairs of your head, but then fly away just as quickly – as if only to tease – not even consenting to even a mere glimpse, nor leaving an impression significant enough to be understood. You are left with only with the knowledge that they were indeed there. Or were they?
It is now when you begin to feel the Presence. Faintly, It enters approaches with grand, soundless footsteps,
Suddenly the eye opens up to a frosted glaze and its shade of darkness seems the slightest bit less shady. You feel the quick opening motion and are a bit shaken by a few rapid blinks that follow.
Past the hazy glass, you see some minute specks of yellow grime. No, they’re golden now. The eye is getting closer. They shimmer and begin to glitter and you see gallery of constellations set to the background of what seems like an abysmal darkness. This one, shaped like a fragile yolk of an egg, weakly glittering; that, a system of stars in the form of a waterfall, continuously overflowing in the centre; and over there, you’re sure (it can’t be anything else, can it?), must be a tender breast in mid-nurse.
The eye moves closer to the constellations. They grow, but not into stars, but the lights of a city – overlooking houses, streets or maybe small playgrounds. They peer over the overtime of tired workers and the new foundations of buildings’ skeletons. Smaller ones peep from warmed windows where they eliminate the photo albums of young parents in worn sweetness. Framed in other windows are story books and other thin books. You linger here for longer than the constellations.
A mild draft brushes you and you feel the Presence once again. Its footsteps this time more quiet, more graceful than before.
Suddenly, the eye spins around the city – past the city even. (Or perhaps it is the city that is spinning around the eye?) You are brought around the giant Something at incalculable speed and catch quick glances at what moves (or maybe what stands) below. Here’s a candled cake, a certificate, a bicycles’ revolving wheels. There’s a harvested valley, then a mountain range – both of which passed in magnificent apathy.
Eventually, the revolutions seem to go too fast, and all you can see are some blurred bright colors below. They seem to grow even brighter in intensity – almost blinding now – and the source from which they spew begins to spew more aggressively. In the haze, it amazes you that you can still make out some scenes. The cap of an athlete, or maybe a scholar; a starched suit or skirt, and the glow of golden years, among other things. You wonder briefly when this slideshow will end, but only briefly. Each picture brushes the eye lightly and in the haze you can almost hear the sound of fine glassware’s’ clang – or maybe those are lost rings in thinned clothes.
Then, all of a sudden small winds come in steady rhythm. The Presence, for a moment, seems to fail Its stealth. It quickly recovers, but it’s too late and you know where it is, not precisely, but you can feel it creeping about you, it’s light ferocious claws drawing closer and closer. The air you breathe is freezing – its frosty hold, tightening within your chest as each breath comes in like an icicle.
The eye finally blinks and almost as quickly as the spinning began, you start to lag. You can perceive colors – still blurred, but in a different blur. They are no longer blurred paths and you can make out their figures now, but not completely. The colors are dulling, but so gradually that the change is almost unperceivable. Here’s the shape of a creased hand, stretching itself with a slight twitch; and there are the wheels of salvaged mobility.
The Presence is around you now. You can almost feel Its cold breath around you, but it mixes with the coldness of the environment and you can’t be sure. You tell yourself there is no escape, and this fate had been set for you – set for all – since the birth of the sun.
The sun.
You try to remember pictures from your revolutions, with much exertion. You pull strings of memories but you pull too hard and they break as strings, bringing not even the shell of a memory with them. You try again to bring back the colors. Some – very few – come and you try to paint back the memories with this small palette. Is this shape right? And you can only paint forms as solid as the last few visions of the eye.
It’s on you now. Its teeth are not as slimy as you had thought, and not they hang over your head. You stand on its tongue and feel – so alien now – some touch of warmth, that unfreezes your feet and back just slightly. The Presence screeches a strangely muffled scream. It’s almost as if it were coming from outside this colossal closing jaw. You wonder how strange a screech it must be: a warning after the attack, but that must make perfect sense, but not to her right now.
The screech gets louder and louder and it’s almost blaring into the now small opening of the mouth.
“Wake up!” You are jerked back into your room in one swift, aggressive motion. You are in your bed, staring at this stranger with even stranger familiarity. “You’ll be late.”
You recognize the figure now and put two feet on the floor. You blink at the mild light of a meek October dawn.
