If the voice does not remember.

When I was sorting off my folders of pictures, I came across some art pieces made by a really amazing artist (Shel-Yang) under the category of Soundless.

Shel has this distinctively simple yet really sweet watercolour art style. Her pictures could tell a story without any words.

My favorite collection of hers is, obviously, Soundless.
I had admired and collected her pieces since 3 years ago, when I first came across her artworks. (Fear not, I didn't make any profitable distribution or use them without her permission whatsoever.) The collection revolved around a dark haired boy and a brown haired girl.

Interested?

I googled (don't ask me 'why now') for the stories or artbook behind the Soundless collection and found this on Baidu. It's in Chinese, obviously.

It was basically (a) short story(/ies) published by '落落' (Luò Luò) about a girl named 吉澤玉緒 (Jí zé yù xù) and a boy named 新堂聖 (Xīntáng shèng).
Personally, I like to read their names in Japanese: Yoshizawa Tamao and Shindo Sei
So, the Baidu link I provided had some abstracts and extracts written in it, so if you understand Chinese, just read them! :D

Anyway, I kinda like the Poem from the book, so I decided to post here.
--

如果聲音不記得.

如果聲音不記得 有種相望叫做尋找
如果聲音不記得 有種平凡叫做甜蜜
如果聲音不記得 有種爭執叫做保護
如果聲音不記得 有種哭泣叫做幸福
如果聲音不記得 有種辛苦叫做執著
如果聲音不記得 有種期盼叫做等待
如果聲音不記得 有種相聚叫做和諧
如果聲音不記得 有種牽手叫做愛情
如果聲音不記得 有種平淡叫做肯定
如果聲音不記得 有種滋味叫做吻
如果聲音不記得 有種傷痛叫做分手
如果聲音不記得 有種突然叫做幸福
如果聲音不記得 有種冷漠叫做在乎
如果聲音不記得 有種挽回叫做無奈
如果聲音不記得 有種笑靨叫做初戀
如果聲音不記得 有種朋友叫做哥們
如果聲音不記得 有種背影叫做驚喜
如果聲音不記得 有種溫度叫做孤單
如果聲音不記得 有種童年叫做兩小無猜
如果聲音不記得 有種逃避叫做珍惜

My rough translation:

If the voice does not remember.
If the voice does not remember, there is a look [at each other] called search
If the voice does not remember, there is a normalcy called sweetness
If the voice does not remember, there is a disagreement called protection
If the voice does not remember, there is a weep called happiness
If the voice does not remember, there is hardship called attachment
If the voice does not remember, there is an expectation called waiting
If the voice does not remember, there is an encounter called harmony
If the voice does not remember, there is [an act of] holding hands called love
If the voice does not remember, there is calmness called certainty
If the voice does not remember, there is a taste called kiss
If the voice does not remember, there is pain called breaking up
If the voice does not remember, there is abruptness called happiness
If the voice does not remember, there is coldness called care
If the voice does not remember, there is a retrieval called helplessness
If the voice does not remember, there is a dimple called first love
If the voice does not remember, there is a friend called brother
If the voice does not remember, there is a shadow called surprise
If the voice does not remember, there is a temperature called loneliness
If the voice does not remember, there is a childhood called Jeux d ' enfants
If the voice does not remember, there is an escape called appreciation

...I MIGHT (emphasizing on the probability) attempt to translate the extracts and abstracts tomorrow.

20122011

Sam looks blankly at the piece of white-dyed wood fibers in front of him.
He scratches his head in attempt to diminish the nonexistent itch as the frustration slowly grows in exasperation. He realizes he has stared at the piece of paper (or at least, at the new blank ones substituting the crumpled ideas on his waste box) for about four hours.

Sam knows very well that this is merely a high school assignment and that Mrs. Brown doesn't demand much but a mere complete set of coherent words she could grade.
But he also knows very well that he wants to write; as a small means to express his thoughts and silent pleas for others to see.

So many things he needs to reconsider.

Should he write it all?
Should he write little?
Should he write straightforward?
Should he write in secrecy; in codes that not most could decipher?
Should he write at all?

...should he?

Letting out another silent sigh, again he picked up his pen and decided to start scribbling.

--
This protruding blankness in my life,
Not knowing when or how it would be filled.
Let alone what or who would fill it.

This vacancy in my soul,
So untouchable, yet so real.
Young I may be, but exhausted is my heart.

Like cocoon I've always shielded,
So afraid of it ever breaking,
So very fragile I've realized it is.

The little pseudo hope and belief,
The vain attempt of assuring,
I would be okay.
--

Sam reads his work over and over again, carefully analyzes every word, every letter.
He finally smiles at himself and turns off his table lamp.