![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
nostalgia and other tricks of memory.
[ As of late, Makoto's been having trouble sleeping. While insomnia is an ordinary facet of his schedule as of late, given copious amounts of coursework and essay after essay bound to induce catatonia in any student worth their salt, there's more to his perpetual tiredness than he ever lends credence toward. The nights elongate for him like they leech off unorthodoxy, his perception of time passing skewed for hours upon hours of navel-gazing.
Sometimes, he even catches glimpses of what he's after. It's always diaphanous, always partially unreal, but it's only in that strange limbo between wakefulness and slumber that Makoto remembers someone he isn't entirely ready to think about, the recurring ghost at the edge of his consciousness, snapped around awareness, the failure of memory and how it never retains sentiment as it should.
It's Monday morning, again.
Seven A.M. and Makoto is sloughing off the dredges of early-bird traffic to find a parking spot. Give or take another fifteen minutes, and he's on campus, winding through the thoroughfare of absently milling students to make his first class. His breath keeps echoing somewhere in his lungs, shattered and partially discrepant, like he's running a high, high fever. Invariably, he's spent the entire morning tossing and turning, restlessness pricking holes in his exhaustion. Tiredness elapses around his yawns, rounding them out as he enters the class with a couple of the last-minute stragglers.
Even arithmetic won't let up on banalities. The instructor keeps speaking in a steady stream of nonsense like his words dwell on an exponential curve, and for the first half Makoto's preoccupied with meticulously spot-checking his textbook as if it'll lend anything in the way of understanding. The answers continue to evade his concentration, and after a while he forgoes listening to the teacher drone in lieu of making sense of the hieroglyphics passing for equations on the current assignment.
Digging a heavy fist into one eye socket, Makoto shakes his head in vain, peering down at the page. Underscored with frustration, it's largely a byproduct of flayed nerves and discomposure on the rise that he knocks his pencil off, sends it skittering with an ill-time knock of his wrist. It's a simple enough maneuver to blink awake and drowsily grasp for it along the floor, but he keeps coming up empty, inexplicably, and gazing down is just enough to freeze him in place.
It's gone.
Makoto has half a mind to rise up out of his seat, thrashing around to find the writing utensil when something sharp pokes into his side and he directs his gaze sidelong, expecting the worst.
Instead, he's confronted with an outstretched hand, the pencil slid out between the index and middle finger, cursorily offered to him. His gaze falters, then rises — up to a stranger that, for all intents and purposes, feels too familiar to dismiss.
(A memory of blue, blue eyes, bright and intent, nearly luminous —)
Alarmed, Makoto nearly collapses out of his seat with a clatter, only saving himself from topping over by hooking one foot around a table leg and pulling himself up through sheer force of will. ]
O-Oh. Thanks.
[ Confusion irradiates his voice, blotchy with disrepair as he abruptly resettles, tentatively taking the pencil in hand but not retracting his hand. The seconds tick by on a lopsided axis, but Makoto manages to work up enough internal fortitude to ask the big-ticket question beating against his skull. ]
... Have we met before?
[ Talk about clichés. He can't help but ask, either way. ]
Sometimes, he even catches glimpses of what he's after. It's always diaphanous, always partially unreal, but it's only in that strange limbo between wakefulness and slumber that Makoto remembers someone he isn't entirely ready to think about, the recurring ghost at the edge of his consciousness, snapped around awareness, the failure of memory and how it never retains sentiment as it should.
It's Monday morning, again.
Seven A.M. and Makoto is sloughing off the dredges of early-bird traffic to find a parking spot. Give or take another fifteen minutes, and he's on campus, winding through the thoroughfare of absently milling students to make his first class. His breath keeps echoing somewhere in his lungs, shattered and partially discrepant, like he's running a high, high fever. Invariably, he's spent the entire morning tossing and turning, restlessness pricking holes in his exhaustion. Tiredness elapses around his yawns, rounding them out as he enters the class with a couple of the last-minute stragglers.
Even arithmetic won't let up on banalities. The instructor keeps speaking in a steady stream of nonsense like his words dwell on an exponential curve, and for the first half Makoto's preoccupied with meticulously spot-checking his textbook as if it'll lend anything in the way of understanding. The answers continue to evade his concentration, and after a while he forgoes listening to the teacher drone in lieu of making sense of the hieroglyphics passing for equations on the current assignment.
Digging a heavy fist into one eye socket, Makoto shakes his head in vain, peering down at the page. Underscored with frustration, it's largely a byproduct of flayed nerves and discomposure on the rise that he knocks his pencil off, sends it skittering with an ill-time knock of his wrist. It's a simple enough maneuver to blink awake and drowsily grasp for it along the floor, but he keeps coming up empty, inexplicably, and gazing down is just enough to freeze him in place.
It's gone.
Makoto has half a mind to rise up out of his seat, thrashing around to find the writing utensil when something sharp pokes into his side and he directs his gaze sidelong, expecting the worst.
Instead, he's confronted with an outstretched hand, the pencil slid out between the index and middle finger, cursorily offered to him. His gaze falters, then rises — up to a stranger that, for all intents and purposes, feels too familiar to dismiss.
(A memory of blue, blue eyes, bright and intent, nearly luminous —)
Alarmed, Makoto nearly collapses out of his seat with a clatter, only saving himself from topping over by hooking one foot around a table leg and pulling himself up through sheer force of will. ]
O-Oh. Thanks.
[ Confusion irradiates his voice, blotchy with disrepair as he abruptly resettles, tentatively taking the pencil in hand but not retracting his hand. The seconds tick by on a lopsided axis, but Makoto manages to work up enough internal fortitude to ask the big-ticket question beating against his skull. ]
... Have we met before?
[ Talk about clichés. He can't help but ask, either way. ]