entry(24): becoming Dawn

This is not fiction. Then again, maybe this is. Like a dog chasing its own tail, I just could not rub off these emotions. I have laughed like this before. I have felt these hands before. A cycle that is, but who really believes that things could happen twice? Not quite exact as the first occurrence, but similar--oddly similar.

These are facts. You might bump into some humps of my story and get lost of the time and the person I am talking about. Then again, a circle has no end points.

“Take it off, it’s no use!” Splatters of rain from her mouth as she was shouting these few words to me. Cars and machines running past us. Wishy-washy and splashed puddle of rainwater into our freezing bones. Hell into my freezing bones. Nonetheless, I took my jacket off. That was it, to let it be and just feel the moment.

Moment. Like how she’s struck with art and would be madly in love with her brushes and paints, the visual representations of thoughts that were meant to be.

A few mornings after I awoke with her peculiar scent on my skin, she chuckled as I made that silly face again. They always laugh like that, and it is quite annoying--yet lovely. We breathed each other in, and out of nowhere, she grasped a trip from her head. One spontaneous trip coming up. That has always been their thing.

“Don’t think much about it, just wait and see.” She managed to shut me by her smile. She said the only thing she worries about is that if it gets too dark. I caught up with her enthusiasm and assured her of things and such. So we decided to stay for the night.

We headed to the beach. She cried with the sun’s death as I lay on her lap. She danced like frenzy.

She danced with me. Her face bloomed as I cheated her with that beer that was supposed to be shared. I really could not stand the aftertaste of it. She was happy to oblige and drank half of my share. She was always warm; that night, she was my furnace.  

This part, I should remind you again, all are real. Nothing is added for aesthetic purposes. She was the poet. The visionary. She lay quietly into the night covered with stars and rays of the fully bloomed moon. She lay quietly and staring into the sky, looked at me and smiled. Said, “I have thoughts running in my mind again. I’m about to give birth to poetry, my wife.”

She did. As the other painted thoughts, visions that explain words. The other one wrote sights that needed to be erupted. Brushes and pens, canvas to paper, paints unto inks. I tell you; the cycle never ends. You cut a circle in its circumference and you see a reflection. She was my best friend who became my lover; she was my lover who unconsciously became my best friend.

A circle doesn’t have any end points.