Once, I wandered the open breezy avenues of Laguna in slow motion, obliterated beyond belief, as cars careened through the seafoam green streets. Each passerby’s face was as disordered as a Picasso, somber with intentions I couldn’t discern. Preoccupied with their internal life, I watched them slide by, constructing day-glo dreams around the sunken fortresses they guarded. I wanted to plunder their thoughts, sink my hands into them like waves rushing through sand, unearth a beam of light I could wield like Zeus. To be a little god of discovery, swaying on a street corner, vagrant, rumpled and vibrant, not giving a damn. To hold your love aloft. What a victory.
I went home that night, an embarrassment of stars giggling across the plum-dark sky. Mellow like heaven as the sand gave way to cement and traffic lights, the tide to power steering and leather interior, the ocean to the lull between each track, and an inland journey into the fragile tapestry of a silent night beaded with rain.
