It has been raining outside for the past few days, and in my room too. My air conditioner has been leaking for the past two weeks and I go to sleep every night with water dripping onto my desk like the ticks of the clock. As I listen to the water dripping every minute, I think about the repeated days, dull days without any discreet escapade, and think that this place is a dead end. I don’t know why, but it feels suffocating, like I am walking on the edge of a cliff, knowing that the path leads me to nowhere. But I walk anyway. Hence excerpt from my short story Pensées d’amour is dedicated to my old days when life seemed to have more color than it has now.
Today’s Recommendation: Mendelssohn – Auf Flugeln des Gesanges (On Wings of Song)
Their conversations were a pocketful of love songs and serenades that filled the night with sentiments of yearning. He spoke to her with his voice muffled under blankets that they have used to build a fort, softened under the sound of radio playing old country music, and she whispered to him back lovingly; they built bricks around their forts and only the flickering lamplight could intrude in their space. Their words embroidered the night, each minute and every hour colored with indecipherable codes of love that only they could decipher. Time was meaningless; clocks seemed to have paused their machinery as they shared their words, and the hands of the clock told their story captured in each second. They held their time in their words, and even Father Time himself could not have stopped them.
He sought for her whenever she swept the streets like the lost wanderer in a barren wasteland, and caught her as she fell into her own fits of troubled thoughts that engulfed her. She was somewhere far, sometimes, and he had to bring her back from her reveries like a child would catch his butterflies in the prairie. Yet he savored each moment, and thought time was worthwhile with her, even if it meant that he had to stand behind a step behind her, holding her as she fell into the hollow abyss of nothingness. They always had a presence of absence between them, and knowing that, they tried to fill up the emptiness with words, more words, and words to blow thoughts into each moment, so as time passed, they would keep each moments, imagining themselves as Arabian bandits with treasures in their hands.