I woke up this morning to an empty feeling. The house was quiet, cold, and the weekend sunlight that usually saturates my room wasn't there. The feeling made me shivered. I hurriedly put on my neon green jacket I got last year from a robotics team and stumbled out of my room and downstairs.
All the blinds in the house was shut and everything looked very still and peaceful. A strange feeling began to percolate within me, a feeling that hadn't bothered with me for a long time. Though the sudden emergence of a feeling so strange, yet so familiar had given me a mini heart attack. I gasped for air, but I welcomed it, for it had reminded me my first forbidden close encounter with a girl.
I sat down on a corner of the sofa, the same spot my mom noticed an imprint of my butt on, and savored the feeling. I sat there motionless with my eyes closed, and had let the feeling take me on a trip down my memory lane. All those careless, worry free and reckless days had all surfaced from deep underneath. Sometimes sad, sometimes happy and sometimes life changing. It all came back.
I felt relaxed, truly relaxed, like when I was sitting in that rusting chair in the back of the ferry. Not a muscles in my body twitched, not a nerve tensed, not a single thought troubled my mind. I wondered what had became of that chair, what had became of me. I opened my eyes and scanned the living room. The frog, the calender, the new speakers. And then I saw my guitar, covered by a layer of dust. I walked over and wiped the dust off with my sleeves and carried it back to where I was sitting.
A Fender Strat. It has a smooth blood red colored body with plain white tone knobs aligned in a diagonal fashion. Cheaply made, it was meant to be a starter guitar, but so badly made that the ends of the metal frets had once opened up a wound on my index finger. I strummed a few chords, not quite out of tune, but the feeling of metal strings cutting into my fingers had made me stop. I sighed, every time when I have the layer of callus on my fingers built up, I would lose it because Mr. School would come and devour all my free times.
I put my guitar down and prepared a hot cup of tea for myself. I opened up the blinds and noticed the strangest thing falling from the sky. Snow. Snow in April? The entire pass Winter was almost without snow, something we always have an abundant amount of when Winter comes around. But this year, no snow. No snow, no rain, the weather pattern was all but familiar (when I come to think of it now, maybe it's just a reflection on my life).
For a long while I just stood there, by the window, sipping my tea.
A Fender Strat. It has a smooth blood red colored body with plain white tone knobs aligned in a diagonal fashion. Cheaply made, it was meant to be a starter guitar, but so badly made that the ends of the metal frets had once opened up a wound on my index finger. I strummed a few chords, not quite out of tune, but the feeling of metal strings cutting into my fingers had made me stop. I sighed, every time when I have the layer of callus on my fingers built up, I would lose it because Mr. School would come and devour all my free times.
I put my guitar down and prepared a hot cup of tea for myself. I opened up the blinds and noticed the strangest thing falling from the sky. Snow. Snow in April? The entire pass Winter was almost without snow, something we always have an abundant amount of when Winter comes around. But this year, no snow. No snow, no rain, the weather pattern was all but familiar (when I come to think of it now, maybe it's just a reflection on my life).
For a long while I just stood there, by the window, sipping my tea.
