[[Longer something]]___Storyteller and his servant _take one

From the bottom of my heart,

I cannot really understand why I am having this urge to translate my stories now. In this time of the year.
I sit here, on the seventh floor in the computer room with my thesis thing and my thesis books, and I start writing translations of my stories. I mean what the -k?
My fingers go, right right, log onto your email, and instead of writing saic.edu my fingers end up typing gmail.com.
Of course, all the while, when I am writing away the un-thesis stories I feel like I am going to have a panic attack. It's very nerve recking and I keep consuming caffein and sugar because I feel like I am being hunted by something. I know that I would feel much better about all this if I stop here and start tending to my dutiful activities that is very MAT.
Yes.


-ck.


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There is this story I have written some time ago, about a man who was a storyteller, a collector really.

So naturally he was a traveler too. He would pack his bags, his socks and a small notebook and scribbling tools and be off for days, for months.
He would come back though, always trail back his days and months and stand in front of his front door again. The door would be soon opened by a pair of hands, that belonged to his servant.

She recognized his footsteps before she could see him. Sometimes she wouldn't be at home, she would be out buying vegetables or tending his modest garden(they had an apple tree) that she would miss his humble return.
She would come home, and open the front door, and smell him. It was smell of an old body that was exhausted and torn. Smell of salt and stink. She would follow that smell and find him reclining in his armchair or asleep on the floor. She would feel a pang of guilt rising in her heart at times like that. That angry guilt would get translated into the gentleness of her hands that took off his shoes and socks.
She would see him clutching his notebook in his arms. That tattered little thing. It was almost a part of his body, worn and tattered. She wouldn't touch it.

He liked to share stories with others. When he finds himself in a place and time where he is surrounded by people, he would seldom talk about himself. His worries or his health.
He would listen with his arms folded, and as to respond to what is given, carefully pick out a strand of story and offer it to the speaker. It was almost as if he is braiding a woman's hair. Dark, lustrous hair being caressed and warmed by his hands, his voice, braiding different strands of stories into one delicate mess.

Some people would go home carrying his stories in their hearts, like shining little pieces. Others wouldn't see them shining. But how they shone.

Often people would wave their hands at him, and walk away, saying, I don't have time for things like this, and he, he would be left behind, standing there.
He would stand there and stare at the absence of the person that was left behind, with him. He would look utterly exposed at times like that, with eyes of a child who was hurt by the careless words of an adult for the first time.
He would always come home though. Bleeding and staggering he would come home. His servant would open the door, and welcome him home. She would take off his shoes and take off his socks. She would warm the water for his bath, and fill up the bathtub. For him. He would sit in his armchair, with his eyes closed, listening to the sound of the water being poured.





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to be continued.

hopefully when everything's over,
thrown over my shoulders.