Some years ago, I have found myself alone in a crowd, armed only with my nine-voltage-battery-powered-flashlight and a cape. I was a 7-year-old boy and I was plodding the pedestrian streets barefoot in my pajamas and my favorite space odyssey shirt. I looked up to the skies and saw angels gracefully gliding in circles above me. I was pretty sure that one of them was watching over me.
I went back on the very spot where I once stood as a kid and realized that I am much like them now. Instead of my PJs and my favorite shirt, I wear adult clothing and shoes. And the angels were replaced by skyscrapers and aeroplanes.
And I wonder.
So I went strutting, down the under passages of the thought that this is not one of those I invent in my head and was actually happening.
In the simplest truth to illustrate, you are writing a picturesque tale of your own grand adventures. In a way, it is like going through the photographs kept in a shoebox, of once was, and of shared anecdotes.
The great human need for symbiosis, this undeniable fact of longing consumes all of one’s biological and intangible beings. That the brimming of its manifestations must be tempered, when we bump into each other just to feel, especially when pain attempts to hold claim to our significance. And yes we aspire and act upon these indispensable necessities, but the very education which we feed on is also in question.
I got up and went to open the windows and yet the winters of these past nights had made the texts frozen. The ceiling was outlined with traces of smoke; I must have stayed here for too long. More than I should.
The retreat to the long and crude process of manufacturing sunlight is the only recourse. As the circumstance instills its resolve, I begin with my door and latched onto isolation. However it is, time is neither infinite nor bordered.
A concept of science, men of higher intellect attempt to encapsulate. But it is like a force beyond us, an intangible matter, or like a memory, you caught only in a dream. Papers with coffee stain and crossed out words, he resumes every after erasure.
I turned to see what’s calling me from a great distance. I saw a man in a dark suit, or was it a shadow? Just a silhouette of a figure cast by moonlight, or a traced memory from a distant past? All made up by my own mediocre pursuit of some pseudo contemporary ambition.
Well, what is real from one’s won comprehension is enough guarantee of tonight’s passage to live through the swallow of the forthcoming darkness and the unknown.
Maybe that is it. Happiness is piecing together little fragments of wonderful moments, hopeful dreams, and acceptable flaws. I fear that when all the hypotheticals and the assumptions fail to deliver, one might be reliant on what was made convenient.
Contained, and self-absorbed, I refuse to settle. And so I went upstream and consulted a higher entity in humility to the point of surrender. And maybe, just maybe, that upon conferring, I may soon rediscover the eloquence back to my Saturdays.
Chris Dino Belacho 