Grit

It was the perfect moment. It was the perfect place.

I was sitting on a bench under the cloudy night sky. I was hoping that there were stars twinkling down on me. I was hoping to feel the cold wind on my lotioned skin just as I was hoping for someone to sit beside me, hold my hand, and talk about whatever comes into mind. But the wind just never came. People passed by in front of me. Some are couples walking hand in hand who seem to be happy and content being together. Some are kids licking their lollipops enjoying the last days of vacation. Some are teenagers laughing loudly with their coolest friends, throwing jokes at one another. Some are busy, walking briskly. Some took the time to stare at me as if I exude that extraordinary beauty. I felt special during those moments.

I had once read in a book that night means all things possible, gives you the feeling you own everything. It’s yours, and you are free. That night was mine and I was free. But I don’t own everything. I don’t have everything. The night grew darker and I was getting bored. Suddenly a breath of wind blew across my face. Still I sat alone. I stood up and entered home feeling disappointed and exhausted. I guess it wasn’t the perfect moment or the perfect place.

As I look in retrospect at the five years that passed, there is no wind that blows, despite the passing of three storms compressed in a week. Everything is still, yet everything is pouring. I stepped outside the terrace, under the mere vastness and certainty of the sky. I closed my eyes, weary from the dealings of the day, and sank into the serene sensations spreading all over my body. I delved deeper into the inner. I glided in the ongoing night turning into day. I stood up and entered home feeling renewed and invigorated. I switched on the lights with a smile. I caressed the canvas once more, this time with joyful and loving strokes. This time, I am braver. The night is mine and I am free.

In the conspiracy of the ephemeral becomes the eternal moment. It is the eternal place.