I usually don't do things like this. I like to share my writing pieces to my friends but I guess I can post it here too. It'll make it easier to find if they are all in one place anyway. Feel free to read them, or don't. I won't take it personally. Criticism is welcome though I might not listen to them. Thanks for stopping by!

There is nothing to describe in the world I am going to introduce you to. There are no skies with beautiful sunrises or dreary clouds. There are no tall, lean trees swaying in the wind or dirty, yellow shrubs withering on the desert sand. Instead, this world is the absence of all of the things that make up the world you know of. Why? Because it does not exist. At least not in our realm of reality.

Its existence lies within these words. Being constructed as each letter is added to the page like bricks. I am building a house that will always be hollow.

You can try to fill it with your feelings, your ideas, your opinions, but in the end, all of that will be washed away and the house will become anew, ready for its next guest. You may ask, "What about you, the creator, the writer, the world-maker?"

But even I cannot control or foresee what happens here, like God with his creation of man, because now we become observers of what once was ours. We can erase our work, elimination in attempt to seize back some of our power, but somewhere they still exist, lingering in the memories of the universe. And the universe never forgets.

Under the Red Sun

The sun has been red for as long as I could remember. But my grandpa used to tell me that there was a time when the sun was supposed to be more yellow-ish and bright, and I cannot help but believe him.

According to him, the world was a lot different back then. The skies changed often, able to become a myriad of colors, ranging from gentle blues to vibrant oranges to gloomy greys.

“Blue skies! What nonsense!” my mother would grumble under her breath as she washed the dishes and the window let in a harsh red light that made her look more menacing than usual.

But my grandpa did not feel discouraged and never stopped telling me about the wonders of the world that once was. At least until the day he left us.

I wondered what kind of heaven was waiting for him up there. I hoped the skies were blue. Red just doesn’t seem right for Paradise.

Nice! Keep up the work! @karamonnom

@ChildHoodRuined
Thank you! I'll do my best!

@karamonnom Nice...

@CallMeChaotix
Thanks :o

@karamonnom

What was the :o for?

I'm not one to post my stream of consciousness. But today is different I suppose. I won't apologize for it and I don't want comments about it. Just read if you want to. Dedicated to a person that was so close, yet I've never even got to know them. I ... well my feelings are made clear in my dabble.

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He was young. He was the type of person that should have lived to be a hundred and two. He was supposed to have a fulfilling life that would have touched millions of other lives. His death should not have been a tragedy, simply an end of something that had to come to an end eventually. We still would have cried over the loss of such a great person, but we would not have felt as robbed.

I cannot shake these feelings of regret. I have never met him, not once. Maybe we have passed each other without knowing in our small world, but I have never known him. I did not even know of his existence until two days after his death. I wish I did.

It could be because of the kind words his loved ones had to say about him, for him. Perhaps it was his bright smile that seemed to illuminate every photo that was taken of him. I did not even have to know him to be able identify his face. I did not need to know him to understand the pain his family and friends are feeling right now.

What?

How?

Why?

Three questions that must have gone through their heads.

Confusion and denial.

"He was young, so young," they must have cried. They might have imagined what their lives would be like if he was still there today. They could imagine for him what his life should have been. But none of that would make up for what isn't.

Maybe they would find some solace soon.

While I don't know if I believe in it, I hope Heaven is waiting for him. He deserves it.

I hope he rests in peace. I hope he can feel the love that his loved ones have for him. I hope he knows that people truly miss him.

Rest in peace.

Part I:

He does this thing where he stomps his left foot. Never his right, but always his left.

It is always when we are in the car after we had parked. We unfasten our seat belts and I look at him. His eyes meet mine for a second and then stomp. He quickly looks away.

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Stomp your left foot."

"I do that?"

"Yes."

"Didn't know that."

Stomp.

He gets out of the car before I can point out that he did it again.

At our next stop, I try again because I'm not the type to let things go that quickly.

"Do you do it when you're angry?"

"No."

"When you're secretly sad?"

"No."

"Because I'm annoying you?"

"Maybe."

"Oh."

I sink into the seat, feeling awful about myself. If I was annoying him, he should have told me sooner. I didn't realize that I was such a bother.

My moment of self-loathing was interrupted with a "You're stupid."

I jerk my head up, upset that he would rub more salt onto my wound. "Well, I'm sorry for being annoying and stupid."

He sighs.

"Really want to know why I stomp my foot?"

"No. Don't care anymore. You're mean."

"Just listen."

"No."

"I was-"

"No."

"-nervous."

"What?"

"I said I was nervous."

"About what?"

"Just nervous."

I look over at him to see that his eyes had fell to the ground. He's nervous. But I'm not. Somehow, sometime, somewhere, I found some courage. I lean in and kiss him on the cheek.

"You're so cute."

As unromantic as it is, I have to admit that I could probably live without him. He is not the air I need to breathe nor is he the light that shines through the darkness of my otherwise lonely life. He is a person as I am a person. But I can also say that the I love him. At least, the person that I am as I type these words onto the page. I cannot speak for the person I will be because as we all know, everything in life changes. However, I can say with certainty that there is already a version of me who does not love him.

The "me" of the past who had never met him. My world existed before he existed in it so I know that I can live without him because I have done it before. I have lived without him so blissfully that one might wonder if meeting him at all was worth it because of all the chaos he has brought. And with this chaos, he has also created this delusion. He has made me believe that I could not possibly survive without him. He has made me believe that my world was a darker place before he had entered it. He has made me believe that all of the good times outweigh the bad times. He has made me believe that this is what I want. He is all that I need.

But that's not true.

I know it cannot be true. Past experiences and logic have proven it to not be true.

Yet, I still believe it. Feelings overthrow logic and I find myself loving him passionately without restrictions. He overwrites my memories and my thoughts. I am now nothing without him. Because I love him.

No, because he loves me.

He was the type of man who said "Thank you" in his head but the words were never able to escape his lips. Brown eyes stared directly ahead without any signs of hesitation, but the hands were more nervous. They were unsure of whether they should stay at the sides or behind his back, forever in a limbo that was the awkward swaying motion. He approached the cashier, a young brunette who smiled politely. She did not know how to smile impolitely.

"How may I help you today, sir?" she asked, the smile never leaving her face.

He let out a grumble or maybe he was simply mumbling. It didn't make a difference as it was incomprehensible to cashier.

"Can you repeat that, sir? I'm sorry, I didn't quite get that," the cashier said. Her eyebrows had furrowed slightly, indicating her confusion, but the smile had somehow remained. It must have taken years for her to perfect. Or perhaps it was because she had not been working for a long time and has not lost her sincerity yet.

"A pack of Marlboro," the man said in a still gruff, but clearer voice. He reached down his front pockets to pull out his wallet.

The cashier, having understood him this time, turned around to get the pack of cigarettes that was on the shelf behind her. "What kind?" she asked. It was uncertain whether or not she was still smiling or not.

"Reds," he replied, as if there wasn't any other possible answers.

The cashier plucked the Marlboro Red from the shelf and turned around, revealing a cheerful, smiling face. She then placed it on the counter so the man could reach for it.

"That would be $9.75," she said, after punching a series of number into the cash register.

He pulled out his plain brown wallet and handed the cashier a twenty.

"Out of twenty," she said because she was taught to. She then punched that into the register and it sputtered out a number. "Your change is $10.25."

She quickly withdrew money from the register: two fives and a quarter.

As the man reached for his change, their hands had awkwardly touched. The cashier remained unfazed and smiling, but the man's hands pulled back instinctively. The quarter fell onto the counter, creating a soft clink sound.

Realizing what had just happened, he swiped the coin and turned around without saying another word. He walked out of the liquor store, never looking back once.

"Have a nice day!" the cashier said from behind.

"Thank you," he said, only in his head.

She was standing on the edge of the world and didn't give a damn. She wasn't filled with awe or fear or anything. She felt nothing but the soft waves brushing against her legs. There was no wind, yet something seemed to cause her to lean back. She raised her hand up high as if to say, "You've won," and let herself fall into the nothingness.

She faded out of our existence as time passed by. She is no longer one of the familiar faces that we see in the supermarket or cafe or subway. She may appear in our dreams but she will not be herself. She would be assigned a role given to her by our consciousness. She became a name, a face, a series of obscure, unimportant facts.

"She once helped me carry my groceries," her elderly neighbor could say.

"I sold her a car," the salesman could say, holding up some sort of receipt.

"For some reason, she would always put honey on her toast," an old lover might remember.

And to us? She is even less than all of those trivial things. But because of that, maybe we are able to feel something for her.