Once again, I found myself walking side by side with my aloof, unconcerned shadow under the bleak—no, bleaker, afternoon Naga skies that promised another daydasher streak of liquid arrows. But it was great. I had the chance to gather and shelve my thoughts in that musty drawer on the back portion of my mind labeled: You Don't Have A Girlfriend. And then I thought to myself: Ah, I really don't have one.
Not that it matters now.
I assumed that the soles of my shoes have already grown accustomed to the rough, uneven Ateneo Avenue pavement when I noticed the decline of accidental trips; they did not make any noise aside from their rhythmic melody, which I took as a silent approval to my daily practice of treading down the lane, both literal and that of solitude. They probably knew I was not going back to that cursed boarding house yet, and therefore, did not complain.
As the way my boat floats, stopping for a bite of something edible (and completely taste-compatible) was compulsory. It lasted how I wanted it to. The feeling of contentment was overflowing and reaching boiling point, it almost made me write a poem.
It is quite the good life I have. Quite. (She gets bitchy sometimes.)
No comments:
Post a Comment