Because All Else Fades Away

/ Wednesday, May 11, 2011 /

She took one last look at his retreating figure, closed her eyes, thought of yesterday, and those other Sundays that ended up exactly the same way that day. It has always been like this; one walks away while the other stays rooted on the spot, like a century-old tree who has seen it all- weary, on the verge of decay but still standing tall. The sun was about to go out and she thought of home. He was her idea of home.

Except for the grumpy librarian and a couple of student assistants, the dusty book shelves kept her company the entire day. She wrote about happiness, of living in the moment, and finding bliss in the littlest of things but ended up writing about him again. There was really nothing to think about, analyze and mull over when one wants to talk about genuine bliss- he was already happiness personified.

There were a lot of stories to be revisited and told. The night before, she came up with a list of several interesting plots but when she woke up that morning, nothing made sense. She checked her phone's inbox and scrolled down for week-old messages. He had other plans and priorities. She went back to sleep, woke up an hour later and still, nothing made sense that day.

They spoke of the future's uncertainties in hushed voices, secretly cried for the past, and laughed their hearts out for the present. At that exact moment, she wondered how it feels like to run her fingers through his hair. It was what she had always wanted to do since they first met.

The weatherman on the telly was talking about a storm coming in a few days. Over cup of coffee, she debated with herself if she'll remind him about the looming bad weather. He casually mentioned his plans of spending the weekend by the beach with his new girl the day before. She decided against it, helped herself to a second cup, and silently recalled a part of Neruda's Don't Go Far Off in her head-

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;
may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.

Everything made sense. She walked away and stopped writing him letters.

She dreamt of coming home of early morning walks by the shore, of being found, and what it feels like to run her fingers through his hair.


{ Kikit } on: May 11, 2011 at 11:45 AM said...

Nindot kai :)

{ Kai } on: May 12, 2011 at 1:08 AM said...

Kit, salamat kay magbasa gihapon ka ngari. :) See you soon.

{ A.Cortes } on: May 30, 2011 at 4:47 PM said...

yay for Jack Johnson

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I usually say, in the end, okay, it’s love and it’s work — what else could there possibly be? -- Maira Kalman


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