So, i managed to post 2 entries in one night. perhaps i'm overdoing it. oh well. anyways, enjoy! this is my first tamers fic. hopefully, i will do them justice. i think i did pretty well with adventure 01 and 02. so, this story happens to center around takato, and this chapter, he will be the narrator. just look out for other characters to be narrators in upcoming chapters. the story also centers around jenrya (or jiangliang or henry... whatever). who knows what might happen... i don't, certainly. i'll update this soon, but i won't put a date so that i don't fail to deliver, like my other promised updates. well, i don't own digimon. i'm guessing taichi or yamato does.

Reveries of Grandeur
Track 01: "especially for you"

The great things in life are those times when everything falls into place, and you collide with the intertwined laughs, cheers and sobs, only to find yourself twirling upon impact into a serene, unabated oblivion.

But, as a testament to these last few hundred moments I've lived, and these last few thousand dreams I've unexpectedly awaken from, I know what exactly are the greatest things in life. The greatest things in life are those times that such moments are just at your grasp, and all you can do is wait for fate to deal you a hand in your favor. You can't reach out and take it. You just can't. All you can do is stare from such a close distance. All you can do is let out a sheepish smile, and keep the thoughts of how great life would be to yourself. To, the absolute struggle is what I live for.

Once I have something, I'm at a loss for more than words. I give up. I am no longer a lost cause in need of any sort of redemption or pity or sympathy. I am the shadow that can only linger around. I am the shadow that can only admire from a distance. I was meant for a life of humble nothingness and absolute simplicity. I never thought of having it all. If I had it all, I would have no real reason to exist. I thought that all I could do was dream.

There are moments in life that drift between being some great moment, and being one of the many greatest moments one could ever live. There was a day where every moment I had teetered between that very fine line between great and greatest. From my dad's standard heckling of what the TV had to say, to the moment I artistically made a perfect swirl of toothpaste curl onto the not-so-hard bristles of my cheap toothbrush (and believe me, these swirls could have rivaled those of "Starry Night."), I could have went on and on about them. But it was that day that I realized that these moments were strung together to make one fantastic dream. These moments were like the kites that dotted the sky in the park I would frequently visit during my childhood. They were just gently floating around, riding the melodious current of the tranquil breeze.

It was that day where I realized that I was really Takato Matsuda. It was one fantastic dream that I wish I never woke up from.

I woke up that day, like I did any other day. From the depths of a dark and empty slumber, the light of a soft sun enveloped my very being, and I opened my eyes, and I bathed in the splendor. I bathed in the splendor of mediocrity, and of a safety most reassuring.

I hurriedly adjusted the blinds that hampered some of the light from filling the room, and doing so revealed the eminent sign of opportunity in the air. The leaves were drifting along, on that clear, warm autumn day. Summer exited with a triumphant breath of reassurance. It was a reassurance that would be missed, for the months ahead were going to be arduous, at best, or reminiscent, at worst.

I remembered it was a Saturday, since my mom didn't hoot and holler for me to get ready for school. Instead she did so for me to help out downstairs with the day's orders. Living in a bakery had its perks, like the free banana-nut bread and the occasional piece of a delicious sample loaf or two. But, like in every aspect of life, the cons always outweighed the pros. Besides having the rejected pumpernickel and sourdough loafs for every single meal, one living in a bakery is obligated to spend their Saturdays enslaved to the washing of dirty bowls and sweeping of excess flour.

I pretended to not hear my mom sound off every five seconds and I made the leap out from my sheets, tinted in a shade of scrub-like blue. Clean, plain, and non-threatening, like it should always been. But, before I did so, I did something I did everyday for as long as I could remember. Atop my bed, above the ground a good six feet, I always laid there just to adjust. Or, at least that's what I called it. I just liked to think about what direction my life was going.

I remember the day before, I thought about the famine at a time where my father willingly threw his quarter-eaten sukiyaki at the TV because his most hated team got a home run. To his luck, it was the bottom of the ninth, and his team was behind by 3 runs. Yeah, the bases were loaded, I guess. I didn't really care pay attention. Anything involving physical activity isn't my thing. Making the plunge off my bed was enough exercise for me.

I did so that day, with one leap out of my post, I landed on my feet, facing the closet mirror. It had revealed the fact that I forgot to put clothes on after my shower the night before. I couldn't help it. I looked at my exposed body, easily vulnerable to my harsh scrutiny and criticism. I was not too tall, but I was not too short, but I'm as far away from average as one can get. I ducked my head a little, so that I wouldn't meet my own mocha eyes. I only could stand to look at my pasty skin that accompanied my inept awkwardness.

I hated the way I look. I didn't know what to make of what I was becoming. Puberty was wreaking havoc on my gangly-yet-stubby figure. I was 16, but I didn't look like I was a day older that 10 or 11. I had no muscles, and the only hair I had growing was the tussled coconut locks atop my head. I really hated the way I look.

After dazing off into a fit of passive rage, I snapped out of it and immediately grabbed the towel that was conveniently hung on my desk chair, and bolted to the shower. The jet of scolding hot water felt like atonement for the sins of my ancestors and their ancestors. It was a rejuvenating, refreshing pain that scarred my body beautifully. There was a moment between the shampooing and the lathering where I had a revelation.

"Someone actually likes me!" I screamed, as if those who lived way atop the tiny mountain villages were deaf. The rest of the world had to know. At that moment, I thought that someone was actually thinking about me, and smiling at the thought of my little quirks and foibles. Someone was actually thinking about I smell, how smooth my skin was, or how ripped I supposedly was. Hell, someone was thinking about what's behind the Capri pants. But, perhaps they were thinking about what our first kiss would be like, or how I would nibble the earlobe, just to hear that faint squeal of pleasure and desire… Yes. Golly gee, indeed.

"Someone actually wants me." I sighed, despite the blistering water that jetted out of the showerhead was collecting in an ankle-deep pool of hell. I didn't care. Someone was in love with me. But I didn't know whom, at the time.

I hopped out of the shower to brush my teeth, and I happened to make the toothpaste as described in the aforementioned. Before doing so, I wiped the fogged up mirror to reveal my curiosity and I gazed at the red marks that shrouded my skin. It was an abuse I could tolerate and be proud of.

I ran to my room and put on my expected attire. But at that moment, and a glorious moment indeed, I decided to have a change of heart. I wanted something else. I just gawked at the clothes that I laid out the day before. There were the vanilla white boxers with the accompanying undershirt and pair of socks, as well as my starched flood-pants and aquamarine shirt with signature hood. I was staring at the goggles that were staring back at me from the top of the dresser.

With a moment of self-assurance, I grabbed my dingy gray shirt, leather flip-flops and stonewashed jeans. The real victory was that I did away with the white boxers. I went to my underwear drawer to pull out a special pair of underwear I was saving for such an occasion. Tossing all my childhood ambitions aside, I put on my new black briefs with confidence and threw the rest of my clothes on. As I was about to rush out the door, the goggles happen to catch my eye. Knowing that the plastic product of China was the looking glass to and representative of my bottled past, I gave a wink and a nod and closed the door. I had no regrets. None at all.

I ran down the stairs, only to be met my the scowling eyes of my mother, arms crossed with a rolling pin in her hand, tapping her foot to the rhythm of a destructive tango. Her head sported the signature white bandana that acted as a hip hairnet. I made several observations that I could have used later as blackmail and fodder.

First, she was wearing lipstick, despite being so early in the morning. Second, I managed to make out a stray nose hair that whirled its way out of her cavernous nose, and it swayed with every flaring of the nostril, nudge of the eyebrow and labored breath she made. Lastly, with the corner of my eye, I found that there was a loaf that I marked the day before among the other loafs for sale. The problem, you ask? The marked loaf happened to have one of my mom's French tips, lost amongst the kneading and folding of dough. Yes, truly disgusting. Blinded by anger, she spoke.

"And where do you think you're going, mister?"

Usually, I would have trembled in fear only to rush to the broom to do my expected chores at the speed of sound. But that day was different. All she did was stare at me, and her eyebrows began to lose the building tension, and a familiar smile returned to her face. All I did was stare back.

"Oh… Just… Don't be late."

I smiled as I ran towards the rack of delicious bread, but with the snarl of my mother emanating from behind, I parried the trouble and sashayed towards the door, instead. My father was sitting at the breakfast table, reading his newspaper and drinking the coffee that fueled him since 3 in the morning. It was yet another disadvantage of being a baker.

"Bye, Dad." I said, quietly, to not disturb him from his morning ritual. Actually, I was more afraid of how he would react to the unusual action of greeting him, an action that would only occur in the absence of money.

"How much?" As expected from my old man.

"Oh… No, I'm fine."

"Have a good time," he said in a way that lacked any discouragement. Sure, it was monotonous and a little spiteful, since I left him to take up my share of the chores. But, those four words gave me comfort in knowing that he'd actually wanted me to have a great time. I know he said 'good,' but that could mean anything.

And with that colorful expression of jubilation, I smiled as I paraded out onto the foliage-wrapped sidewalk. The brisk air was tolerable, and the birds chirping away their sweet serenades only complimented the atmosphere even more. Love was in the air, but for once, I am the object of someone's desires and fantasies. It was a just a day that ended all days for me.

On the way to my destination, I happened to pass the flower shop. I was going to take the advice of the irrational cliché of stopping, for once, to smell the flowers. I did so. There were Roses and Lilacs and Daisies and Tulips. There were Orchids and Stocks and Hyacinths and Peonies. They all smelled of their own accord, only blending to some harmonious, undistinguishable euphoria. Everything was in place that day.

"Where you going," Asked the vendor, watering the hanging ferns next to the flowers.

"I don't know," I said. "But I know I'm going to get there."

I looked at my cell phone to take note of the time. It was at that moment, 9:27 in the morning, on Saturday, September 29, when I realized that everything was in place that day for something momentous and spectacular. Realizing the time, I had to run. I promised to be there at 9:30. It would look terrible if I was late. It would be one of the many greatest terrible moments. It would be my absolute downfall if I were to be late.

I couldn't be late that day. I had a date with Jenrya.

by the by, this story is gonna be an interesting tangled web of interest and unrequitted love. when the puppeteer is bored and insane, he tends to make his puppets dance to their death. uggh... anyways, reviews reviews reviews would be nice. flames and praise welcomed.

ek