I was itching to go home. At the eleventh floor lobby, I waited for the elevator.
The elevator door opened; in it was three people. As I stepped in, I thought how perfect it is now we’re four. In the few seconds we were in that rectangular metal box, I imagined we each had our corner for ourselves. Four corners of the oblate spheroid world ruled by the four people in the elevator.
At a loss for… thoughts. Is that possible?
Surrealism is poetic. Poetry is surreal.
Traffic is congested on Dona Soledad. But mother has to bear with the consequences of being late (for 4 more years, I’m sorry in advance).
I hope, with all my heart and soul and body, that this will all pay-off in the future.
This routine is still so temporary. Given I will live a full life, I will switch jobs, have a boyfriend, get married, have kids, retire. So this– this– every morning routine will be fleeting.
I just saw the Makati skyline again. It gave me goosebumps as I realize this beautiful landscape visited daily won’t be forever.
He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven
by William Butler Yeats
Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Velutha might have recited this poem from memory. For Ammu. After they made love under the mangosteen tree for the first time. He might have altered it slightly… “Tread softly, Ammu…” He might have not. Ammu might have kissed him on the forehead upon hearing the poem. She might have not.