Sitting on a ledge on top of
the palace of dreams, gusts of wind slap my face solid with an invisible,
animated mask, compelling my eyes to grasp less of the wide plains and my lips
to unwittingly shape curves and crooked polygons. But it is a joy. Bliss, the fuel to my veins,
darts my heart pumping, and it starts from where the weather bears fruit of all
that is good. At this elevation, I claim to be floating and flying wingless as
the colugo leaps and glides from tree to tree.
As I turn forty-five degrees to
my left, there is the hammock of lullabies, in its lucidity against the ageless
sun, hums the mountain’s distant, forlorn songs and those melodies that echo
paradise. At this very moment, the former is muted. The lovely music travels to
my soul, caressing, reassuring, and healing every wound. I forget and move on
as the saxophone plays on, the only instrument that can legally rob the violin of
its the most romantic title. Induced to hear it, I close my eyes. Every note,
every high, and every low, is emotion verbalized.
Captured by the fragrance that
bleeds behind my back, I step diligently onto the immediate arc my feet can
reach. Oh, the surprise of all wonderful surprises, the red roses in the garden
beds smile at my already tickled look. Painted by the master of nature, they
glisten beautifully and slowly pick up the music I hear. Nothing can be carelessly
uttered, when all you know is that everything is right and perfect and sound
and seamless.
Then the rain suddenly comes
pouring down, as I become a poor fowl perching on some bare branch. It
has been years since the last time I was this drenched, and it brings back good,
old memories. I am far from ending this moment; the water is just beginning to taste
as good as a cup of honey lemon tea.
Image: Singapore
Image: Singapore
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