4th of July.
Sun kissed skin and ephemeral wildness
echoed by the breeze caressing mile high trees.
There was love to behold on asphalted roads,
and a beach bonfire’s comforting glow.
States, and cities, and hearts intertwine as
laughter exploded with the fervor that bespoke of a life sublime.
I sigh heavily, the sand feeling gritty and inhumane against my feet. Maybe the sea could just devour me, or the earth could open up and swallow me whole just so I would not have to yearn for death, and it would not have to search for me.
“It’s never too late.”
I turned towards the general direction of the voice, broken free from my thoughts, surprised by how smooth his voice was than by the fact that he was talking. A cat, his fur a hodgepodge of golden yellow and deep turquoise, sat on the sand next to me. I could feel his eyes on my face, like serrated knives cutting deeper onto my skin and peeling layers upon layers of masks.
“It’s never too late for what?”
“Easy for you to say. You have nine lives.”
“And you have one. If a cat who had nine lives purred contentedly under the glow of the sun’s rays, shouldn’t you, a person who only has one life to live make the most out of it instead of wishing for death?”
I smiled for the first time that day as I watched the white foam embracing the sand, the coconut trees swaying gaily with the all encompassing breadth of the breeze, the sun boasting its luminescence against the striking blues of the sky, the people laughing, swimming, strolling along the shore, the enchanted cat dispensing life advice like the stereotypical guru. I realized that maybe, just maybe life isn’t so bad after all.
Cerulean dreams—reflections of skies and seas, mirrored hues of calming blue where brides married grooms; where children frolicked near the white-capped waves; where swimmers lost themselves in a panoramic underwater paradise; where sandcastles were born and stolen away yet again; where lone souls were dressed up for mental vicissitudes and re-expressed with pen and paper, canvass and paint, melodies and lyrics, cameras and film.
Fixed some white pasta, garlic bread and cranberry juice for breakfast. Good morning everyone :) (Taken with instagram)
Now reading :) And yes, that’s a bookmark I unearthed among its pages. (Taken with instagram)
The stream of ocher mingled with the gloomy cerulean hue, a panorama signaling that of coveted sundown. Her hands quivered violently as a gust of cold wind snaked through the lush, turquoise sweater she wore. Her hair, bearing the same darkness as a starless night, created a sharp contrast against the pallor of her small, oval-shaped face. She was unconventionally beautiful, parts of her face hard where softness was deemed more enthralling, curved where straight beckoned more lingering glances, blemished where perfection was due. Yet what enraptured most people were her resplendent, green eyes. They were incisive, distinct, unforgettable. They were perceived as portals to poignant thoughts, windows to dubious emotions and a passage overwrought with dreams not necessarily borne out of selfishness but that of altruism.
The glorious rays of sunset created swathes of muted orange on her tear-streaked face. Her white, chiffon dress, dipped low on her bare chest, fluttered wildly around her legs, as if maneuvered by an impalpable entity. The sea looked exquisite in front of her, its vast expanse ostensibly embedded with diamonds, illuminated by the setting sun.
Her senses felt everything, saw everything, heard everything. The soles of her feet were buried among the grittiness of the sand. The stark contrast of colors in the sky, as if painted by an impeccable artist with a taste for finer things. The sound of the children’s giggles, their tiny voices unarguably naive in their attempt to protect their sandcastles forever. The memories of their halcyon days strewn across her in an impetus far too strong to prepare for.
It was strange how her memory failed her in the most inopportune moments but never his face, never his mannerisms, never his little quirks. She could never forget how his grey eyes, framed with thick eyelashes and bushy brows, came alive whenever he saw her in a crowd. She could never forget how his right hand had fixed his hair, in spite of the latter’s uncanny obstinacy. She could never forget how he had liked his french fries dipped in vinegar and salt in lieu of the typical ketchup and mayonnaise. She could never forget how his fingers interlaced with hers, as if a string of cherubs decided to sing madrigals just for them. She could never forget how his kisses were both sweet and passionate, a mishmash of things primal and kind. They were pieces of the past she was fond of reminiscing, the colors and details clear as a cloudless day despite the years in between.
The floating candle on her hand felt cumbersome, the smell of vanilla inebriating her senses before she could respond to her thoughts again. She knelt down and allowed the candle to be carried away by the translucent water, its flickering light visible among the frothy waves. She remembered that fateful day when they were swimming in the same beach, her swimsuit splattered with hues of chartreuse and lilac. She heard his voice first, cacophonous, almost overpowered by the sound of the waves crashing to shore. She saw him next, his head bobbing up and down, attempting to breathe air. She ran towards the water, swimming with a speed she never knew existed. She got to him, her right arm slicing through the water in rapid movement, her light dragging him through the drafts of the current, until they reached the shore. There was an ambulance, people in uniforms assisting, resuscitating. She held his hand tightly, willing him to live, even after they announced the time of his death.
She gathered their things, scouring through the contents of his bag when she came across a little black box. A pained, almost choked sound came out of her throat. Realization dawned upon her as she slumped to the sand, tears streaming down her face.