Entry One

This is Rewel. I am not particularly fond of writing, but words are power, particularly written ones. Yet, I find myself in need of these words, in need of language.

There is rain this day. It splatters unconsciously across the white cement as the people move under the covered walkways. Rain will not stop business until we are made of sugar. There is no hustle or bustle, just the steady movement of a leisurely urgency.

The streets have not seen cars for some time now: another absence. The white stones of small buildings glitter from the soft glow of fluorescent lighting dancing off the streaks of rain. The city, or village, or town, or… there are too many words. The buildings are low and sprawl for miles -white cement buildings, stores and houses, outwardly they bear no difference. No windows face the streets, only the courtyards and gardens between buildings. There is a lack of growth in the gardens as most topsoil has been dead for years, but there are some who like to pretend, with a timeless ficus dotting the occasional garden. Apart from that, the world is white. Not blindingly so, but bright enough to illuminate any trace of darkness.

The people come and go, dressed in white. White dresses, white trousers and skirts and loafers and pumps. They do not see each other as they brush by; they do not hear each other’s footfalls. Through the rain you can only hear the people breathing.