brotherhui

[brotherhui]

Hospitals and Airports are the closest modernity can come to reaching the Divine

Have you noticed how some places seem immune to time and social conventions. Like airports, those monoliths of now. Harsh lights burning and souls criss-crossing, tongues melting together into a writhing throng of humanity, a steaming cesspit of consciousness. Steeped in camaraderie yet drenched in isolation. The electric blue arrivals sign glares with neon brightness at 3am, a beacon that signals the end of the road.

Here comes a family of 4 on their way home, crossing through automatic doors into the balmy drizzle of a British night, carrying their loot of straw hats and cheap pendants, tan lines and peeling red lobster skin. A girl no older than 5 limps after her parents and older brother. She lugs her bright pink unicorn behind her and hugs the hood of lilac pyjamas close, rubs the sleep out of her eyes whilst her mother shouts at her to hurry. Soon she’ll tuck herself into bed, in the attic of their ordinary red brick London row house, and she’ll watch the sun peak over the trees in the back garden for the first time in her life. It will become a core memory she will think fondly back on for years to come.

By the first class lounge they hurried past, a man in an impeccable suit (Sheep’s wool, the finest money can buy. The grey colour of the Thames on an early morning) paces back and forth restlessly, briefcase in hand, phone in another. Gold amber eyes like a hawk, close cropped black hair and neatly trimmed beard, square pocket matching the deep tan of his shoes (authentic leather). He is barking orders to someone in Arabic, closing deals, building empires. A bloodied napkin he used to stop a nosebleed earlier falls out of his pocket and winks up at the scaffolding exposed ceiling, high and arching like the dome of a cathedral. He’ll make the sale, then visit the airport bathroom again before hailing a cab to the closest 5 star. In the morning, the maid who took the job to send money to her ailing mother in the Philippines will find his cold stiff body and scream. She’ll call the police and be taken in for questioning. She never signed up for this.

At the hospital coffee shop – two streets and half a lifetime away - a 4th year med students sips on a cortado like her life depends on it. Caffeine surges through her veins, bracing her for the day ahead. Unbelievable how exhausting trying to take up as little space as possible can be. She hates the spiel, it’s the same every time. A new dawn, a new face, a new team. The introductions, the smiling, the grovelling, the headache. She’s 5ft flat with bright orange hair, aspirations for Neurosurgery and a bright pink notebook, so why would they take her seriously.

It’s 8:30, and she’s scheduled for 9am clinic, so she has time for a hurried breakfast today. (Eating any earlier makes her gag). Small mercies. The off-red stained scrubs she nicked from the theatre changing rooms cling to her like a second skin preparing to moult. She squirms in them, the comfort undeniable. They make her feel like she belongs. They make her feel like an imposter.

Her table – she comes here so often; she thinks of it as hers - sits right by large windows overlooking the main entrance and staircase. She sees it all from here, her quiet unassuming throne. The doctors and nurses, physios and pharmacists. Rushing rushing, running, stressing. Wishing, hoping, waiting, waiting, waiting. For the shift to end, for the time for bed. For this rotation to change, for the exam to pass. We’ll go on that holiday next month, next year. When money isn’t tight, when things are more settled.  Before they know it they’ve wished their lives away.

Their patients understand, all too well and all too late. The same father with the IV drip and the metal stand comes down here every morning to see his daughters. They run up to him, he holds them close and beams. But his grip is getting weaker, smile is getting thinner. He doesn’t answer when they ask when he’s coming home. It’s funny what we can’t hear when we’re too busy wearing stethoscopes. Next month she (I) will be stationed on the Psych ward. We’ll have to do it all again, but maybe they’ll hear me this time. Maybe it’ll get easier.

Between them all and among them, if you squint and unfocus your eyes during one of those ungodly hours at the Starbacks across from Boots and WHSmith, leaning against a grey white pillar you might see him.

He is the spectre that haunts airport lounges and waiting rooms alike, the handsome stranger with the black snapback and the beats headphones and the khaki shorts. The one who lives out of a rucksack and wears a travel pillow like a crown. With the kind eyes and crows feet, and honey chestnut curls. He is that boy from your high school everyone liked, with a kind word for everyone; the one with a charmers smile and the charisma to bullshit his way through anything. The one who – when pressed for future plans, would laugh and shake his head, looking down bashfully. “I just want to travel for now, see where it takes me. I want to see the world”, he’d say, eyes twinkling with the possibilities. On someone else, the words would likely merit a telling off, they’d be seen as the paper thin excuse to fuck around and get high. But he seemed so genuine, and his teeth were such a dazzling shade of brilliant white when he smiled, even the strictest careers advisers couldn’t resist.

He lives in those moments, the liminal fabric between worlds that’s so hard to put your finger on. Blink and you’ll miss him in the old alleys of Rome, the spark of his cigarette lighter blending amongst the city lights.

You’ll find him among the most remote hiking trails of the Peloponnese, laughing with local shepherds and German tourists alike, sitting on jutting rocky cliffs and admiring the blue Mediterranean below. If you really pay attention, you’ll see his staff isn’t like the others. Something suspiciously like a pair of snake slithers up and down. You could swear you heard them whispering just now, but when you look again it’s just a wooden stick.

He is the patron of us wanderers and travellers, those of us with movement in our blood and restlessness in our hearts. The ones who beget the will of changing winds and shifting tides. The ones who can’t allow themselves to sit still, lest the dust settle and the coffee get cold. The mortifying ordeal of being seen and known. Or the ones that carry a hearth with them, in the bottom of a suitcase, in the heart of a trailer. The ones who move and weave through the Earth not because they are running but because they are coming home. He dances and jokes with the kids amongst campfires, always welcome, always a pleasure. And if he helps them pick the odd lock, swearing solemnly to secrecy, who are we to judge.

His bronze skin smells of cinnamon and nutmeg, vanilla and cedar and a thousand other spices. He reeks of incense and market stalls, moles and freckles tell the story of trading routes and old silk roads, of cotton shawls from Alexandria and silk from Pekking. His fingers and eyes twinkle with the good-natured mischief of petty thieves and sleight-of-hand magicians, tricksters and circus performers. He picks apples from behind ears, presents jewel necklaces to his lovers.

She sees him now, amongst the patients. He helps an old lady up the steps, pulls a balloon out of his back pocket to the delight of a sick child. She locks eyes with him and they nod at one another She has been seen now, and known. Perhaps she’ll find him again one day, if either stop running.

[brotherhui]

I promise you it gets better.

A version of you somewhere in time and motion is smiling, eyes bright and heart full. Please wait to meet them, they have something to tell you.

When days are gray and mind in decay, close your eyes and picture another day. They exist I can assure you, new days with better beginnings and happy endings. All ahead of darkend times, the sunlight peeks golden in due time. Its going to be fine.

[brotherhui]

btw every time i say 'oaaough' or some variation of that i am trying to convey this emotion

[brotherhui]

what if writers did streams like artists did

[brotherhui]

who's excited for SNS-month? 🧡

[brotherhui]

the term "phasmid," meaning "stick insect," comes from a latin word meaning "apparition" or "phantom," due to the creatures' ability to hide in plain sight, and then move around and scare people.

the largest phasmids likely remain undiscovered; the longest insect known to science was a phasmid from a species that remains formally unnamed and undescribed, even since being captured for the first time in china in 2014.

a female specimen of the quasi-mythical australian species of gargantuan stick insect was sought by a curator of museum victoria for three years before he encountered one, also in 2014. upon realizing what it was, he says, “I started screaming."

[brotherhui]

i love when an author truly understands a character so well that they can just put said character in any situation and still have them act correctly. like yeah okay hes a cat cafe owner. hes a middle school teacher. hes a dog. and hes acting exactly how he would act if he was a dog.

[brotherhui]

training

[brotherhui]

redrew the most popular post from this blog

[brotherhui]

borthday boi

[brotherhui]

I let my brother's cat lay on my chest while I watched tv because he's afraid of the loud storm and now he's in his own bed but I still feel the rise and fall of his breathing pressed against my chest like muscle memory. I don't have a point with this I just find both the sensation itself and the miracle of having a living breathing creature rest peacefully on my own chest to be overwhelmingly beautiful and lovely.

[brotherhui]

Why don't they make stained glass fish tanks? Give those fish Catholic guilt

[brotherhui]

AU in which Itachi got his unknown disease™ before the massacre.

If anybody's got a fanfic for this or wants to write one pls tag me.

[brotherhui]

Critique Paper: Footnote to Youth by Jose Garcia Villa

One of the most powerful literary influence in the Philippines, Jose Garcia Villa, wrote a very credible short story denominated Footnote to Youth. Wherein it talks merely about real life scenarios as it emphasizes the youth, responsibilities and marriage.

The story itself is entitled “footnote’’,which means that the note or the message to the reader, specifically to the youth, is found at the very end of the story. That the reader should be the one analyse as to what the story wants to showcase or if the story have more than one valid interpretation. Therefore, the approach used is reader-response approach, as it focuses typically to the readers or the audience of the story.

Marriage in a very young age, especially when you are not ready with the consequences together with it, will give birth to more problems. In the very first part of the story, Dodong a seventeen-year old young boy, was very eager to marry this girl named Teang. So even in the beginning of the story, the author was already giving a clue or idea on what is his story all about — early marriage. On the second paragraph, I was a little bit bothered as to what’s with the worm that it’s actions towards Dodong are so detailed. So I found out, after reading the whole story, that the worm symbolizes Dodong. Innocent, blind and low in class. The author really has a logical mind that even in the smallest things, he can captivate the reader’s mind to give meaning to it. The young man, walked fast with deep thoughts about Teang, to ask the blessing of his father for their marriage. His father asked him “Must you marry Dodong?”, this line, for me, has a very big significance in the story. It only has four words but it says a lot of things. It is like the author itself is asking, “Are you ready to commit with your decisions in life?” or “Do you think you are knowledgeable enough for these actions?” and something like that. 

The scenes are partly organized and unorganized. Organized because I have understood mostly the parts of the story. But I am just not sure with the wrong punctuation marks, misspellings and repetition of sentences if those are really intended or just typos. I was a bit confused at the part where the point of view suddenly shifted from Teang to Dodong. Now Teang’s point of view is an another essential of the story. She somehow regretted marrying at a very young age and daydreaming about the past. But I like how the author also exhibited as to what Teang’s realizations are. Indeed, history repeats itself. This has been proved when Blas, one of Dodong’s children, has been fitting his father’s old shoes. Dodong and Teang, married at a very young age, and by this, they might not had enough wisdom to raise their children and ended up full of regrets in life.

The youth is the hope of the motherland. We are our country’s hope. Teenagers nowadays are impulsive and aggressive, whatever they think and feel at the moment, they want to do it right away. This story has been written for our minds to be open on the possible things that can happen if we wouldn’t be heedful with our actions. We should think before jumping into big decisions in life and while still young, set priorities in life. Because if a decision is made, be ready to face and accept its consequences.

[brotherhui]

[brotherhui]

[brotherhui]