After Hemingway’s “A Moveable Feast” and Poe’s “A Dream Within a Dream” (for Mariez)

Hemingway had his Paris to boast and revel; what I have is UP Diliman, a sullen ground of green and brown, a silent witness to hearts breaking, razed to ash from which, like a Phoenix, a stronger self arises shrugging old memories in exchange for new, happy ones.

I could almost feel the teasing coldness of the wind, venturing through each branch, a nook of my sensibilities foresees a beautiful day in the midst of the hustle and bustle, the tremors, of city life. And yet this patch of land, surrounded by olden green and a flower that rises with the sun, is a whisper of half-forgotten lore, the sincerity of each passing day, an assurance of days ahead.

I travel hours on end just to be here, with nothing much clear to see or expect, other than the scent of nature and an escape from marred existence. There is something more to life other than the toils and chaos that envelop my waking moments.

I search each corner, a temerity to expect something beyond what I think I know, not knowing what to expect or what to hope to see. Only then did I realize I do not know what I am looking for. It was as if part of me has gone beyond, leaving my mortal existence, a feeble, meaningless life, to the realm of dreams. And yet has never really gone farther than the nearest tomorrow I wake up to. What is this place? Why am I here?

I have been here countless times before and todays and tomorrows since but, like a little child, I grope for each stride as if lost, my eyes circling wide, tears almost filling the corners of my eyes, the blackness of my own shadow leading me nowhere, I stumble and fall into the abyss of longing and seeming desperation. The sun offering no guidance or light or warmth, under which, I lose myself, blinded, cold.

I see each passing jeep with eyes blanketing my tired self, a wisp of grass a touch on my cheek, what then am I to do?

I mouth these words, thinking faster than I can dare to write, this feeling grasping the very heart that dares to believe and rise from the nothingness it has fallen into, with eyes intently, intensely, fixed at the roads forking in and out of everywhere, I am lost. And I can never be found.

I forged on, feeling my way against the vastness of the moment, and then, with my soul aching and parched, my legs gave up. With nothing to hold onto, I close my eyes. All I could think about was you and that perfect day.

I could hear from afar your sweet laughter and feel the warmth of your smile that placates me battling against the wind of distress that subjects me to a vacuum of emotions. Your bright eyes a light upon my steps and a source of my renewed self, a fountain to cure, refresh, my tired, dry soul. I could feel your hands reaching out to me, you are my hope, and new life. The perfect day has arrived.

And then, I open my eyes. You weren’t there. I pray you’re not a dream that vanishes in the morning or is lost forever from memory, that what I have now are but fragments of reminiscences of a hope I’ve always wanted to own.

But I know, deep in the heart of this banal road, I will find you, and my life will be complete, my heart will beat once more...and then, silence, I open my eyes, waking from a nightmare my demons created. I see you, beside me, I could hear the rhythm of your heart coincide with mine. And I knew then, as I have known, my life is complete.

I could think of nothing more, nothing since you’ve completed my life, other than:

I love you, Mariez.

(March 12, 2013 / 6:14 am)