There she was waiting. I could see in her profile that she was shy.
Once we started talking I could see in her a wise but fragile soul, as she had survived not one but many battles, cried defeats and survived ignominy. She smiled and laughed at my poor attempts at humor. But her laughter, although sweet, was a cover. A cover of what? I don’t know. But I could see in her eyes memories that still hunt happiness away.
Her soul was a pandora box that could mirror the deepest darkest corners of ourselves. And yet, she was fragile. And in more need of protection than anybody, I have met before or after her.
“I have to go,” she said
She just stood up and walk out the door. And for a brief moment, I felt as if a part of me had just left behind her.
I love pens. I love holding them. But at this moment, all the pens I own are broken. Why are they all broken? I have no idea.
The spring that unfailingly lowers the tip is stuck..!And It’s hard to make the ink leave a mark on the paper. I try writing with the other pens, but it is all the same result.
And when inspiration strikes, it has to wait until I finish battling (dueling at times) with the pen, the ink, and the spring.
I’d love to curse and let it all out, but I shut those thoughts down because the inspiration is a sensitive spirit, who needs to feel peace and calm to work her magic. So there she is now waiting with crossed arms in front of her. She is huffing and puffing at me, and the foolishness of who I am.
“Buy new pens,” she says.
“I like these old ones. I’ve had them forever” I simply reply.
And the inspiration just rolls her eyes at me as answer.
When I finally get the pen to work, I write it all down, but something is missing. I know. And the inspiration knows I know. I look at her, but I don’t beg her.
“Fine” she says angrily. And she starts pouring silk on air.
She cries with me in the funeral of Prince Charming and smiles at the birth of his heir. And when we finish the story she leaves without warning or a goodbye. But I know she will come back. Because although I know, she doesn’t like me because I am a talentless writer, I know she will come back because she has nothing better to do than torture me.
The first time I visited Odawara, I didn’t know what to expect, but as soon as I saw it, I fell in love, metaphorically and literally. And even now after so many years, it still speaking to me.
And to many people, because even the samurais stop to take photos in front of it (Odawara castle)
Its solid wooden gates welcomed me as it has welcomed thousands of people before me. And will continue to do so until the end of times. Perhaps.
And with the brave “pink” ninja who kindly posed for my camera before I left, I said goodbye to Odawara castle once more.
The guy sitting at the cafe nervously looked at his phone.
Someone was running late. And we were all witnessing his impatience and the cruel ticking of the clock that wouldn’t stop for him, or anybody.
A few minutes later, she came almost running through the door, ordered a cup of coffee, and sat at the table mumbling apologies that he wouldn’t listen because he had news to share.
“I have finished my book” he announced with a big smile.
“Congratulations…” She said happily “And……” she tried to continue.
“You have no idea how great my book is” he said with an intoxicatingly happy face that started to resemble a hysterical mask.
“Yes, I see. But…” She tried again
“You know? Most of my friends are writers, journalists, poets, and editors. And they all say my book has potential” His happy face has mutated into the joker’s face. He had a happy grin on, but there was something scary and obscure in its expression.
“Great..” She managed to say
“I mean my friends just love it. They love my book. I am sure that in less than three months I will be an international success, and you will be the luckiest girl in the whole world for being with such as a great guy as myself” He said with a laugh that could freeze your blood.
She only nodded and started sipping her coffee knowing she was not invited to speak but to reassure him silently.
We all try our hardest not to look at them, but we couldn’t help to feel sorry for the poor girl sitting with the “successful” guy.
As I arrived at Kichijōji station, I couldn’t help but notice little gnomes, faceless ghosts and other “magical” creatures walking around. They all seemed busy and preoccupied.
And although I gave them the best of my smiles, they were not kind because they didn’t stop to help me when I asked them for directions. They just ignored me.
And neither the scarecrow that so kindly helped Sophie in the moving howl’s castle seemed to be carrying out good deeds this morning.
I knew the Ghibli museum was close to Kichijoji station, but all those “magical” creatures were taking the whole station for themselves. The volume of their voices was growing louder and louder. And they didn’t seem to be going anywhere but rather waiting.
But waiting for who, I wondered.
And just after few minutes, my question would be answered.
Because just before me, Mr. Miyazaki himself appeared at the ticket gate. And those magical creatures, his creatures, jumped to attention.
He was wearing a wool checked jacket along with a hat of the same print. He, all of him, was just as colorful, enchanted and fascinating as the characters he creates. And they all followed him on to the next train like obedient and lovingly children. And without him, the Kichijõchi station became gloomy and silent.