I found myself sitting on an old wooden bench, waiting, a commuter, alone in a shed which stands on a fork in the road, on my way home, one sunny afternoon.
Seeking shelter from a dire shed with its chipped off paint, and tilt posture, its once reluctant concrete pillars now wrinkled by the cracks. As its wounded soldier stance tells a story, of its scarred but proud appearance that was brought about the changing weathers, I spared time and listened by leaning against one of her seemingly tired pillars. This old beauty still remains to be the center-piece of this place though. She is surrounded by an overwhelming knee high mantis fields, with each green grass bows down to their Queen, each time the wind passes by.
On my right sits a dust covered back pack, resting next to my feet, my only companion in this worn down shelter. I almost forgot of this feeling, the abundance of the season’s grace, of the little things around me had taken my eyes away from me, of all of the nicest things and more, that almost simultaneously, I hasten to rest my biases onto these wonders that soon to be morphed into just a mere memory that I alone had witnessed. As I close my eyes taking deep breaths, of swollen-inflamed entwined feelings of guilt and desire, digesting the stimulus, feasting on the most colorful view, taking mental pictures to make sure that the feeling stays on, at least for just a little while. Something has to give you away I guess, the addiction translates into something profound, from worse to better, just like that, for your very own sake, just to keep you alive, you know that you need to go back to this place eventually soon.
And soon, youth will be replaced by memories of spilled drinks from plastic transparent cups, of the million conversations you had on those sleepless nights and the laughs and the promises during your days with her, and as you clench, as you take and entertain, the feeling inside just burns you alive. But no matter what, no matter how many lines may appear on your fragile skin, for as long as you are in that universe, as you fly that kite of the memory, you can say that you’d feel like you are still in your twenties still willing to run away even with heartburns and that irremovable stench of nicotine in your lips.
As each passing day comes by, as you look at your reflection in the window pane, you’d say that true romance can still be felt these days. Nobody could tell you on how really, but you know it is out there.
As I inhale the last remaining souls of these wonders, I try to rapture the feeling within. Having the hammer of my memory to be cocked back, without hesitation, one tries to be awake for the next episodes. Finally ready to take that ride back, hoping that you’d still believe, and holding hands by New Year’s Eve.