I SMELL A POWERFUL, AN UNPLEASANT REEK, which disoriented my senses and jolted me awake from my slumber. Each one expropriates my mind: obscurity, confusion, oddity. I tell my legs to shift so I can bear the pain.
Grey, white, or a similar color with dark paint as concrete; permanent building constructions—high and plush-up to the sky; four-and-two-wheeled machines lined up on the road; pollution and cigar smoke jumbled together to spike each heart; and no green, no trees.
Four. I counted back the eyes around the table. Only four people, including myself. Boisterous by those boring sound, I chose to mind-read with a glass of wine flanked with my fingers. I am sitting among the old men. Bob Ross on the left and Sir Tolkien on my right.
The darkness blinds me, and cheers and cries combine to buzz my senses. My voice is muffled. I’m losing feeling in my face. A movement in the shadow draws my attention to a caution. I note a figure among the specks of light. It is stomping on my chest and widening my eyes. The entire light is directed toward him as the piano strains continue to pound; as the violin string escorts.
I open the window when the car is passing in between the rice fields. The coconut trees grow in sparse. I breathe in the cold air solemnly; let it touches the wall of my lungs and muffling my heartbeat. I start to remember when my little sister and I played with the water buffalos there. I really miss those moments. The moment when I was still innocent and did not lapse into the polemic of real world.
I saw her today. Nabila was hiding behind one of the big trees, between our camp and the wilderness. She’s always been there before the sun goes down—reflecting while peeping occasionally from the shadows of the forest, darkened by the sinking sun.