Part II: Wednesday, Cutting the Grass


If there's something worth writing for in here, it would be the grass, all of it, in its crisp, wailing splendor.


On the side of this forsaken oval garden, the grass blankets are dull and still, clutched by doomed shadows of age-old trees. But in the heart of it, in the unassuming navel of this grand expanse, the grasses are golden, smudged in healthy earth and, oftentimes, flattened by seeking footsteps.


Here I am, on the part of the doomed shadows, my own space drenched in noon-time air, where mini-growths of nameless herbs just sprout in anonymity. Yet as I look everywhere, on every inch of abandoned beauty, the grassed would prevail upon the senses, almost in excessive want, or desire. the grasses, in this sun-kissed domain, are the lone passion, so much so since the spell of mid-day woes had made souls to ignore its solemnity.


At this point I would think of you, as pale yet barbed slips of sunlight creep on the page, and then, I write of you. In the visual glory of my recall, the sight of the sprawling green and its imminent crispness die in a whimper, and then I start to paint the contour of your face and the joys that come with it. Surely I do, I would want you to sit beside me, lay your self on this solemn earth of thoughts and solitary souls. The grass, on its every blade, on every gentle, unresisting sway, push you into a mere portrait of a want. And from here, every little things seems so blurry.


In the dead of this summer day, I am made to recall whatever had gone, whatever I try o keep, whatever I want to let to grow. On how I see it, there is this nudge of consciousness, an implicit feeling of temporal symmetry where my senses and all of me seem to exist in two points in time. Or perhaps there is a lone word for it: remembering. For sure the grasses weren't there, as the stretch of cold concrete and its immaculate whiteness had shut them off from our sight.


But in both moments, in both of those remembered specks of time encapsulated by this doting universe, you're in my thoughts, and your memory, all of you, seem to be fluttering everywhere. I see you in the expanse of green, I see you in the sunlight and in its playful chase with the shadows. I feel you in the bite of the noon, in the mute press of the earth against my flesh, in almost everything.


I tell you, there is this symmetry in time, an eventful occurrence of memory and of desire. But just like how it has always been, just like the world's imperative that the sun will cease and the winds will die, it is my burdened duty to look at my solitude.


You are not here and perhaps it will never be, that you and I shall share this space drenched in noon-time air, where mini-growths of nameless herbs just sprout in anonymity.