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20 December 2009 @ 08:29 am
fix the sky a little


i.

having done all you can, you head back to the sleeping quarters, allegedly a sanctuary, now the incubator of self-conjured nightmares as he sleeps under those sheets that is supposedly yours, but his to claim rightfully for he has been using them for almost three years, and you, the newly arrived, but him nonetheless. he shivers, and they are not delicate, but full body-rocking tremors inflicted upon his entire system, and you wonder what is he dreaming of. tess? eve? the scent of freshly-cut grass on earth? the launch of helium-3 tanks back to their terran base, along with the desperate loneliness of wanting to be the passenger on that journey back home? misplaced jealousy?

he curls up foetus-like, trying to defend himself even in his dreams, and you look away, disillusioned.

ii.

the idea of meeting yourself is almost ludicrous. in the midst of all those feelings, the oddest is that of fear. not a fear that this clone will pose a physical threat to you, but a psychological threat. who are you, and how sure are you that you are you and he is not you? and if he is him and you are you, who is living the life the way the real you should be? what and who is real? and moreso, if you are him and he is you and the both of you are both real and fake, his actions denote a possibility that you will walk his path, and your action a possibility of him walking down your path. it is as naked and vulnerable as one can be - it is not a question of science and ethics of cloning, but of the simple affirmation of identidy and being. and seeing the battered man sleeping under those sheets, his blood - your blood - staining the white with red, is the most honest proof that you are no soldier, that you are susceptible to breaking, to falling apart, that you are not as strong as you think you are, and that by the end of this three-year contract, you will be just like him - a quivering, miserable mess.

you look at the photographs of tess and eve plastered all over the sterile white walls, and feel lonelier than ever.

iii.

suddenly you feel angry at him, because he is the living proof of your darkest fears.

iv.

vaguely you recall a month ago, yourself a young brash astronaut and tess your young wife holding your newborn, the sun kissing her skin as the both of you listen to the waves crashing on the californian shores. you are living at the perimeters of the american dream, standing outside that white picket fence looking in. idly you finger the edges of a new contract with lunar industries. three years as a miner on the dark side of the moon, operating the sarang base. no vacation, no nothing. three years, and then you will be back. you hesitate, still standing outside that white picket fence, and you feel tess tugging your hand quietly. "there is no need to do this if you don't want to." you look at eve sleeping peacefully in the embrace of her mother, and your chest tighten. "i have to. it is good for us. we need the money to raise eve, and give her the chance she deserves."

v.

gerty tells of an accident, hence the pockets of missing memories. they feel like black holes - the deeper you sink your hands into it, the more bottomless they feel, and the more captivating they get as they suck you in forcefully. curiosity kills, not only the cat, but the curious clone.

vi.

you remember the night you boarded the spaceship. "whenever i look up at the moon, i am seeing you." you want to correct her and say that she will never be able to see you, because the only side of the moon that faces the earth is the lighted side, and never the dark. but somehow you wish the planetary laws would collapse and for once, when she looks up into the heavens, it is you she sees.

vii.

everything collapsed, and it is not universal laws - it is that of your own universe as you realise all these memories are implanted, and the only thing that is real is the breathing of the older clone in the room, the rhythm to the sharp sigh you exhale in dejection. you scoot closer, sitting on the floor beside the bed, facing him. his face is taut with exhaustion, even in sleep, as he continues to battle inner demons. you begin to wonder of the bigger forces at play - the ones who condemn the both of you to this fate. he looks like you, and he has been here prior to your arrival. on principle, you are hating him because it seems most likely that he is the original sam bell, and you are the clone. or it could be simply that all of you are clones, and the original is back on earth, with tess, with eve, with the completion-of-contract money that will be able to see eve to her college years. or perhaps tess and eve are all fabrications, and there is no sam bell. all of you could have been bred in test tubes. is it even possible? you ransack your mind, desperate to recall fragments of things you read in science publications and biology classes.

he looks just like you, and you wonder why you cannot accept the simple possibility - or truth - that you are his clone. he has been nothing but civil to you - nice, even - and you have been harsh. shamefully you recall your dismissal of his simple request for a handshake. he does not deserve that, not from you. his fingers peek out beneath the covers, dirty and bloodied. who are you to deny him a simple affirmation of humanity? quietly you touch his cold fingers, and shake them gently. "hello." you whisper.

viii.

faintly you hear the echoes of the main computer forewarning the arrival of eliza in six hours. as much as the both of you refuse to talk about what it means when eliza arrives, there is a tacit understanding that neither will survive. and perhaps it is in this impending death that one clings harder to hope. your finger touches the dried blood on his bottom lip. if tess and eve are your lies, he should be given the truth. he endures almost three years in silence, in the barren isolation of the dark side of the moon, his story untold, his loneliness unheard for the exception of his pet plants and gerty, and it is only fair he goes home, and you to remain. eliza will expect a dead clone in the crashed rover, another to be in healthy condition in the base. your mind goes from a brisk jog to a full run. there is no time. a delivery of helium-3 is expected in six hours, about the same time as eliza's estimated time of arrival. this time, earth will not receive its source of energy, but it will welcome back its own survivor.

for the first time since you woke up in the infirmary, you feel alive.

ix.

you stand up, about to leave. but before you do, you look at him - one last chance to truly look, to study him, to study yourself - or a possibility of yourself. the other sam - the possibly-real sam, the possibly-clone sam, the simply-just-another sam - is a humbling reminder that you, should you stay and live your three years here, you may end up just like him - driven out of sanity, desperate, lonely, broken. he is not the sam bell you remember in your false memories - the one who proudly climb on board his spaceship, the one who gave his daughter one final look and the promise of a better tomorrow, the one who was embraced keenly by his teary-eyed wife before he left. but he is sam bell nonetheless.

gently you touch his cheek, and chastely kiss him on the lips. "you're going home."

x.

but when it is you who is tucked in the delivery craft heaving towards mother earth, you cry.
 
 
17 July 2009 @ 11:47 am
9.

9.1

You run off to befriend the new boy, but in actuality you want to spend time with him.

9.2

On the podium. Every time you stand on the podium, suddenly things turn wet. Your coveralls, wet. Your skin, wet, especially from around the eyes - is it tears? Or sweat? And there's that whisper. It becomes louder.

9.2.1

There was once you manage to sustain the vision long enough to turn and glimpse at the whisperer. Pale skin.

9.2.1.1

Since then, the visions stop.

9.3

You are falling out of the title hunt.

9.3.1

The team will nonetheless expect you to do anything to assist Kimi. The needs of many outweigh the needs of one - the needs of the one hope they have, left. Kimi would never expect you to oblige, and he would understand. You feel the pain in your chest, being rendered second fiddle. But when he turns to you, hesitant smile, that movement - you did not meet his eye. Your heart, however, sank.

9.3.1.1

Pale skin.

9.4

However Kimi's victory was not the finality to things. It felt different, and definitely not like the scene in your mind. The energy from the crowds felt different, and there was nothing more to it apart from the recognisable colours. No clouds, no dark skies, no rain, just the acrid stench of your sweat and the dampness of it seeping through your fabric. This is not it.

10.

10.1

10.2

Kimi returns your gaze. "Brazil. 2007. I don't forget."

10.3

It boils down to this. The intensity of it all. The final race.

10.3.1

You focus on your driving. You have specifically told the team not to radio you about Lewis unless absolutely necessary.

10.3.2

The skies darkened. Still you drive, still you outrun destiny.

10.3.3

The finishing line.

10.3.4

Rob's voice. You do not get your hopes up. You can feel the euphoria. Maybe this is it.

10.3.5

The deafening silence came.

10.3.5.1

"I'm sorry."

10.3.5.1.1

Now you finally know what Kimi whispered to you. You smile. "It's alright."

11.

If gods have written and it has been known to them how each and every mortal life will and shall end, what will they do should a mortal one day steal a quick look at those heavenly scripts? Once upon a time, as a child, you heard the clinking of wineglasses and the sharp waft of evaporated alcohol in the air, overpowering the senses. What can a helpless, powerless child do? You do not outrun destiny - it catches up with you, the foolish one who tried. The one who raced. It finally connects - the dark skies, the tears, the desperate tears, the shattered dreams, and yet everyone who now stands up in unity behind you, acknowledging the child who has driven a long way to maturity, to respect, to represent the dirty-faced children at the streets and the mothers who borne them, to be what Brazil stands for.

And then there is the one who quietly stands by your side - the once nameless entity who is at once the only other person who would understand - or never understand - how this feels. On the stage of the world, full circle, before another circle starts again.

No one outruns destiny - she is a lithe dancer, swift on foot, quicker on wheels. But out of all the gods, she is the most merciful. She offers you a new contract, a new race in life, this time with the weight of your past in mind. If gods have written and it has been known to them how each and every mortal life will and shall end, what will the mortal do should one of them offer him the pen to write the next chapter?

11.

Even the gods cannot have predicted your sense of absolution.
 
 
17 July 2009 @ 11:02 am
5.

If gods can truly listen to the cries of the millions, they must have deafened themselves. But how does one know? What that is expressible is often in the tongues of men, the ones who are susceptible to the waves of change and to the cold touch of death, and to equate such handicaps to the omnipotent is nothing short of blasphemy. Do they even have ears? Perhaps they are all-seeing, all-knowing, and we are not worthy of an audience even with the most sympathetic of gods. Which is why, even when the tides rise and crash, the moon walks on - waxing, waning, like fortune's hand, the icy spray of reality rushing to drown the runner's ankles. Still you run, still you race.

5.1

Two years passed and you are now clad in red - though you cringe at the memory of Aunt Katrina and Ayrton - pure crimson, like the blood that courses through your soul and fragile heart, that colours the stallions you now command. A new chapter, and as much as you face this with excitement, you fear you cannot get out of what that has been revealed to you. No, you tell yourself, you will not let it fulfill itself. Slipping on the mask of soldier braving his first war, you step out into the Australian sun. And suddenly Melbourne transforms and the skies turn dark. Just another day at the local bureau of meteorology's office.

5.1.1

You spun.

5.1.2

There was impeding rain and there was competition to get the strategies right and you can hear the commotion and then you knew you would go pass the chequered flag to clinch victory, oh finally the sweet sense of victory, but it feels more complete than that, and then there was sudden darkness.

5.1.2.1

You spun.

5.1.3

The press had a field day.

5.1.3.1

'Massa - still as erratic as ever.' A reminder not to look at the newspapers tomorrow, please.

5.2

"What happened, Felipe?"

6.


6.1

Race engineers are a special breed; they are not only the wizards of technology, they are, too, empaths who could read the emotions of their charge as easily as picking up a children's storybook. You are in no mood to entertain anyone with tales of dragon-slaying or watching your idol fall before your eyes, so in retaliation you raise your shields and up your game - a cheerful smile, like an act.

6.1.1

Michael Schumacher is not your race engineer. All he did was to take one look at his team - yes, his team - and the next thing you know, Rob Smedley is reassigned to you, mid-season. As much as you want to hate Michael for this, you are secretly thankful.

6.2


6.2.1

"What did you see, Felipe?"

6.2.1.1

No longer "What happened, Felipe?".

6.2.1.2

The right empath asks the right questions. It is in his professional interest to know. The right friend asks the right questions too. It is in your interest that he knows. So you shudder. He understands, and envelops you in a hug.

6.3

For the rest of the season you finish your races well, and you serve as the perfect sidekick to the great Michael Schumacher. Moreso, you never underestimate his ability to see through you - sometimes you wonder if he knew, but he never said anything about it. He smiles, and comments on how your side of the garage is prospering now with Rob in charge. You wonder if Rob ever told him about what you saw, and the thought that he knew made you shuffle your feel awkwardly as he slaps your shoulder in a friendly encouragement.


7.


7.1

"I have a proposition for you."

7.2

Michael knew about the ghosts you have tried to drive through and drive away from. The visions, the panic fits, the heralds when present and future collide to create a perfectly superimposed image, in which your mortal eyes cannot differentiate. You should have seen a psychiatrist, perhaps. A medical expert. Have your brain scanned. All the logical explanations behind the phenomena. Perhaps it is hallucination. A disorder. But no. He chooses to be quietly supportive. Smiling a quiet smile, he hands you a thick envelope. "I have seen this day coming, too."

7.2.1

The next day, Michael Schumacher, seven times world champion, announces his retirement. You are sitting in the Ferrari garage when it happens, sobbing.

8.

8.1

You are screaming in happiness, and this, this is the sensation you long for. Breaking the curse, you are in your nation's colors, on the top of the world.

8.2

And suddenly the skies turn dark, but this is Brazil, and sometimes it is prone to such moodiness. The anthem plays on, the celebrations continue, and suddenly your heart is clenched in the sharpest of pain and anguish, its pounding so loud that it drowns the frenzy roar from the home crowd. And in the midst of it all, you feel a quiet presence on your side, a brush of lips against the earlobe, and a faint whisper. You strain to hear it. What is it trying to tell you?

8.2.1

And you look around, the anthem has finished. The sun is bright - your heart soars like the blue skies, and for a moment, you don't remember the vision.

8.2.2

You got out to the pitlane for photos and basking in the adoration of your team, when Kimi Raikkonen walks up to you. He smiles tentatively before offering his hand. "Congratulations." You grin back, expressing your thanks before thinking that sometimes Kimi's eyes could go a shade bluer, like the skies, and like ice.

9.
 
 
16 July 2009 @ 06:44 pm
5.

Two years passed and you are now clad in red - though you cringe at the memory of Aunt Katrina and Ayrton - pure crimson. In an attempt of a puerile joke, 'the ones in red tend to die'.

5.1

And suddenly Melbourne transformed and rained.

5.1.1

You spun.

5.1.2

There was rain and there was competition to get the strategies right and you can hear the commotion and then you knew you would go pass the chequered flag to clinch victory, oh finally the sweet sense of victory, but it feels more complete than that, and then there was sudden darkness.

5.1.2.1

You spun.

5.1.3

The press had a field day.

5.1.3.1

"Massa - still as erratic as ever."


6.

7.

This time it came with the sensation of a quiet whisper, the warmth of someone's breath caressing your skin. You shiver, your feet wobbly, and the world is unreal. You try to balance yourself as cameras flashed.

8.

It should not affect you this much, but you want to know who the other person is.



10.

If gods have written and it has been known to them how each and every mortal life will and shall end, what will they do should a mortal one day steal a quick look at those heavenly scripts? Once upon a time, as a child, you heard the clinking of wineglasses and the sharp waft of evaporated alcohol in the air, overpowering the senses. What can a helpless, powerless child do? You do not outrun destiny - it catches up with you, the foolish one who tried. The one who raced. It finally connects - the dark skies, the tears, the desperate tears, the shattered dreams, and yet everyone who now stands up in unity behind you, acknowledging the child who has driven a long way to maturity, to respect, to represent the dirty-faced children at the streets and the mothers who borne them, to be what Brazil stands for.

And then there is the one who quietly stands by your side - the once nameless entity who is at once the only other person who would understand - or never understand - how this feels.

11.

Even the gods cannot have predicted your sense of absolution.
 
 
28 March 2009 @ 08:47 pm
reasons to forgive
mao / mizuki
nc17
kindaslightlyangst 2ndpov

disclaimer: not mine, no copyright infringement intended!
dedicated to: lady_sb for sharing with me the wonders that are maomao and sadie and that video of mizuki and his tongue...


somebody out there likes me
i can see it in your smile.
every time i think of you
i know it's only a matter of time.
before i'll be looking into two those deep sincere eyes
and out of this masquerade.

- kirsty hawkshaw ft tenishia, 'reasons to forgive'


Though I’d love to hold you, give you my affection, it is only right to share this beautiful air without despair.Collapse )
 
 
 
 
04 March 2008 @ 02:55 pm
i want:

a space where i can write.
and be myself.

free creative expression.

and all that liberal-sounding jazz.




i want to know i will not be judge.
and when i'm ready these will find their way out through sound.