Dear Anak Tintin,
Between the unbearable silence, almost cosmic solitude, and vacillating bursts of passing vehicles, I somehow lost the desire to flee. It's now half past nine on a very slow evening here at GCS (the koisk my older brother and I put up with some friends to build capital for a potential coffee shop). Late perhaps, but welcome just the same, the rains have started to trickle in. It began drizzling at four this afternoon and didn't stop until an hour ago. It left a pleasantly cool atmosphere that promises restful slumber. No wonder it's a slow night. Our regular customers may all be snoring at this moment.
The artistically slapdash concentric oranges, yellows and browns of the kiosk's interior now serve as the cocoon cushioning my tired soul. The haze has cleared a bit and revealed emergent patterns where I'm rooted to one spot, probably lying down in utter surrender like an awkward protagonist in a major motion picture. I finally understood dear old Gertrude when she wrote, there is no there there. For here is where I found myself, and here I shall ultimately remain. And for once, it didn't seem such a sad prospect.
You said you were looking for peace. I might just have found mine. And you will too.
1 comment:
eventually...i hope i will...i had been dragged too long from the past...it's time to wake up...
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