Little Thinker (3)

I had entered the street where the used book sellers were flocked. The silence of the books and the ascetic moods of the shopkeepers made me feel like I am being sucked into a spiral in time. I let my steps free. And my eyes took this moment to escape for a sightseeing across the shelves. Then, a neat work of calligraphy drew my attention. I approached the writing, and much like a cartoon character, I started sliding, climbing and jumping over the curved and extended letters. And I scurried through the shortcuts provided by the long scarves of the letters. Then, I took a moment to name myself "the letter explorer".

The voice of the shopkeeper zoomed me out of my fun among the letters: "you want to try?" I said "why not?", and I grabbed the paper and pen with an eagerness, sharply contrasting with my nonchalance towards them at school due to obligations. "Think of the road map of a butterfly being hurled in windy weather, and let your hands free", he said. "The inspiration receptivity of your calligraphy depends on its ability to dance with your heart"

In the air of an adolescent who have barely licked any knowledge, I blurted "it wouldn't be beautiful". "You cannot decide the beauty or ugliness of what comes out of your pencil. Your job is to hold it. Don't interfere with the job of the owner of the wind." I couldn't help smiling. Suddenly, I thought of the time waves that I had seen with my futuroscope; the letters of the destiny inscribed with the ink of time.

"Are you a poet?" I asked.
"I compose", answered the bookseller. I couldn't figure out whether he meant he composes poems or he writes compositions. He continued, without my inquiry:

"If I see a poem, I compose a poem, if I see a story, I compose a story, if I see an idea, I compose an adage."
"So, you must be a keen observer?"
"I guess you could say that. You know, history repeats itself. When you look into the future, you see the past. Instead of a kind of weather forecast, if you treat your observations from the futuroscope as meanings in search of a body, then you can be their mother, and bring those orphaned meanings into the life through your pencil."

It seemed that this bookseller was part of the same mental gang as I was. We passed to a yard through a door at the back of his shop. He showed me a giant futuroscope. I had never seen one like it. "This is custom made. You can't see another one anywhere else," he stated. "So, have look at it. Let's see if there is a poem, a story or something else in your lot!"

I was confused. If I saw a poem through the futuroscope, and wrote it, that wouldn't be mine! I couldn't possess something that belonged to someone else. And, if I saw a long poem, I wouldn't be able to keep it in my memory! As I was busy with these thoughts, the bookseller placed a kind of helmet on my head. "This is to record your inspirations." I couldn't control my tongue, and uttered "what the...". But it was all true, in flesh and bone. But I still wondered if my observations would really belong to me.

"Now, you are going to look into your own past and future. This is something only you can do. You are going to behold your inner world. What you see is you."

And I ventured into my own tunnel in time...