I Am Standing Between The Roadways And The Other Roadways

• Ivan Xie, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2013

The handle turns and the opening to a roadway is appearing…
The head lies between the implement and the other way. Stand in front of the face. He knowingly stares at the door, separated by the white sea. It is a lobster, swimming in the rearrangement of stationary stationery. A cloud of dust rising from the sea envelops the man, the Buddha of the doorway. Why must there be a white emptiness?
A tiny bell, imagined – it lives on that other region, removed from the line and the other white thing. Do you see/the same/the difference?
You do not like what you see -> move to the other road. Find it in the doorway, only if it waits for you. But if it waits, you must seek.
Yet, like any door.
Closure prevails nonetheless.

We must all know that for a television to work it must have a screen and you know that too. Because what happens is that it shows you what it wishes to show. And you watch it if you feel like watching what it shows you.
Open your television up. Let yourself show yourself what it shows to you. Sit down. Stand up. Turn upside down. Let it differ. But don’t forget to open the door. It must be opened.
Yet you must remember to watch the television.

Move your eyes quickly
>>>>>>>>>move back
look at your eyes
Massage them. They hurt. Stop looking. Think.
no eyes. just think
That is how it is.
I may see two eyes; a butterfly; a man; biological features; computational devices; weapons of mass destruction; offensive finger gestures; immoral instrumentations; floating rolls of cloud, dusts; darkness, light; sitting old women; chairs; shoes; violins; angry old fat men; purple oranges; incessant mastication…
He sees art.
[look]
To look through the doorway is a complexity in itself.
(differently)
Yet we know nothing and everything of it.

He kicks the door hard.
The wooden structure moans quietly, hinges wincing in boredom. Boredom is horrible. It eats at you, an empty force. Gnarly it is. Ever so prickly. An unexciting endearment. Must I remain always brown. I wish to be biloxi. Or maybe provence crème.
His foot twists at an angle and without hesitation, he kicks it again, only for him to further injure his foot.
An emptiness filled the room, saddening the door. A blank look, a question of excitement, of life not lived. Oh the jealous door. True jealousy lives itself out in quiet empty places. That is where you will find it. Indeed, that is where.
He limps away, face blank.

The door is left unopened...