I wonder, why X is X and fiction not fact.
A bit suprising to see a post so soon after my last one huh? I guess it is a little unusual, but its no biggie right? I've been bumming around during my off days from colleges. Gaming, chatting, surfing the net, reading, and generally not doing anything useful. One thing that caught me was how much the routine starts becoming boring after awhile.
I always say I love gaming, but that becomes boring after awhile. Not every game continually captures my attention, some are so bad I stopped before finishing it. I say I love surfing the net, but there's only so much to surf. The only thing I realize that I could never get bored of, is reading. Another one is anime, my newest hobby considering I only started picking it up over a year ago.
It could be a story, forums, articles, quotes, theories, or even some nonsense but I never fail to find delight in reading. Sometimes I read something and it tickles my funny bone. Other times I watch an anime, and my brain starts working out the plot holes and the mysteries involved. Then there are times when tears fall, as the curtains are brought to a closed on the appearance of a character who gave much impact to a story.
Then I become inspired, my mind churns out ideas, my brain starts screaming that the plot should be different, and my hands are motivated to lay the foundations of my ideas and to do what has always been part and parcel of my greatest hobby. After all, to love reading, is to love writing innately. So today, I shall write.
I walk the hollow streets alone. I am a wanderer, or so it seems for I do not remember ever staying at any place for long. I wander the silent night city as I survey the vast skyscrapers that surrounds every inch of my view, testament to humanity's conquest and defiance of what ancient people could only dream and speculate.
I pause, as I feel the stirrings of another presence. I look up to see a hooded figure in black, his face covered by the hood he dons. He is walking towards me, taking his time. I watch as he approaches, and stops in front of me. The figure throws back his hood, revealing none other than that who I would see if I look into a crystal display, a mirror, my reflection, myself.
I look at my reflection, a shadow of my own self. The shadow shows curiosity, a trait so inherent within myself.
“Are you at last on the end of your wanderings? Will you cease this perpetual existence of uncertainty?” asks the Shadow.
“Who are you? Are you that which is I? Or that which I seek?” is what I question in return.
Eyes devoid of emotion, the shadow does not show that it is all that aware as it asks, “I am who you are, I am the wanderer. Have you given up on your search? Given up on that which you seek?”
I’ve always wondered that too, and aloud I thought, “Will I ever? I doubt that is possible. I seek myself. I seek truth. I seek my calling. And above all, I seek my place. The one place where I will belong.”
Bemused, the first expression the Shadow displays since we met, he said, “ Then you may well be searching forever, is that alright with you?”
No don't bother making any sense out of it. It is after all, but a shadow of my thoughts.