I am in a bus from Emptiness to Emptiness, seated by the window exceeding me in size. It is completely green outside—the trees are green and get slowly greener as we cross the places where it recently rained. The ground is green and the sky seems like it wants to turn from its rainy grey to a rainy green. My eyes are glued to everything outside. It is hard to look elsewhere.
In my hands is the book my best friend gave me for my birthday. It is about a 22-year old in Tokyo and then Greece and her unconventional relationships, and very surreal. The sentences aren’t overly long, and the people in it interact in interesting ways, so it is hard to put down. I’m not sure where to look. My mind keeps nudging me to read ahead and see what happens and finish reading so I can start the next book I want to read. But I’m not sure where to look. It is so beautiful outside.
I keep looking outside to my left, then down at the book in my hands, then outside, then at my book, based on intervals marked by paragraphs and chapters. Tokyo has started transforming from a city full of glass and concrete to a place filled with green. Slowly I reach a state where I cannot differentiate what is outside and what I imagine as I read my book. The city scenery is spotted by vague spots of green.
It starts raining more and the sound of the rain evens out all differences between the imagery in my head and the imagery outside. The book disappears from my hands and the window disappears from my left as I see myself in a dull green-coloured darkness full of stories.
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Every time I write something surreal, I seem to choose various elements from my environment and see them and the images representing them merging.
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