An Epilogue for a Memory

They say I spend too much time loafing around taking my time in almost every opportunity, sleeping and dreaming my life away. I guess, I’m just fond of spending my day typing around a thought. From an inspiring photograph or from a line that I came across from a film or from a split second memory that lasted longer than it should. Always trying to make a rendition that would fit into the frames of these realizations, taking my time finishing the first draft just before anyone could ever have the chance to say anything about it, owning those short lived moments.

I got out of bed, sleepy still but feeling too tired to rest. Hopeful to find warmth outside so I tried to walk off the boredom that stemmed out of nowhere. Perhaps I am a lyric or just an octave short. Something inside tells me that I am almost there as I wander around asking myself what would happen if inertia loses its momentum and soon I would eventually be out of my pacing especially when procrastination makes it really easy to stop. Ever since way back, I came to live a life having no grand plans, no blueprints, I am never really picky about what goes on in both my short and long term activities. I was never good in any of those. It was never because I chose it to be so, nor going against the current keeps me afloat, no, nothing like that at all. The thing was, I did not know what I wanted to do until every time I got to where each was. That is why when the world spins twice as fast, I would always sit in one spot and just take a time out. Probably not a very good option to pattern your life with, but this is where I came to see the things that worked for me.

I remember just before the dawn in the passenger seat while watching the world fly by, as the crescent moon was just about to say goodbye, my head is slumped against the half open window as I stare at everything between the light and the dark. I’m not sure if I was really awake or if I was dreaming, I could not tell the difference. The headlights and those red tails in front of us contribute to the abundance of a feeling as they would drape the road photo ready. While the wind is messing with my sixty buck haircut, I simply enjoy each feeble breath, spending the time being lost in those thoughts in tranquility, frozen in time before the world wakes up rushing, while in that blissful cradle of motion.

To help relieve my bad leg, sometimes I would let and tie my shoe laces loose.  I like that light feeling and I complain much less.  It is as if I am being taken back, looking right at her face in a glance of a memory in those few seconds every time the passing headlights from the other side shine right at her.

Those days are like a pop song in my head.

It was like doing a flip-flop. Somewhere within the mid-flip we realized that the real paycheck was what we had there on our laps. She was right, nothing is good enough if you are still alone though. And how we knew it mattered did not pose any significance. We never got that far anyway. Not being ready did not mean I was never up for it. I guess I was just slow, like dripping honey on a jar. Waiting for something is already hard enough, much harder if you had forgotten what it is for.

After it rains, when the wind calls out and sends its invitation, we would always stay up late, after hours of cassettes and cigarettes hanging by the open living room door, staring at the seemingly fallen stars on the gutter as they glitter around while the ground is still soaked. As we take in this strange, addicting smell from the pavement outside, singing our kumbayas, it was like the world is clean again each time.

I remember the night when she tore a page from her pocket journal that she always hid and carried in her pack, writing a two liner lyrical dream that she could have sworn to have caught everything what I wanted to say in my lifetime. Then she threw the note in the bathroom sink turning the water blue with a haze of black. “Colors at last” she said.  Well, I didn’t know about that but the words just keep on flowing now those days are gone. But we never really cared if it really did, or why the coffee stain on the sheet was there in the first place. She said it was for good luck and so I kept the memory tucked in my chest.

Not the sentimental type but in that silent moment I thought to myself that for as long as we keep our headlights on, we would always smile and drive our way into those tunnels in an exit song just before the credits start to roll. As the stories and the metaphors go on, I would sip my way through this aimless journey attempting and taking my time not owing anyone an explanation. Maybe it is just me, but I think, a slow fade is the way to go.

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