do i like it? nah.
but i did understand why it is romanticized. we’ve all seen it in the movies. Inhale. Drag. Rush. Exhale.
10 and 10.
you said you didn’t want to do this, but did anyway.
you stuck it between your fingers. Flick.
you breathe it all in as the ember fades into an erratic somber.
you feel yourself drowning in comforting constituents as you stare into the distance under the velvet sky.
How can hurting onself be poetic, and cinematic even? Sickening.
contemplate. remember. silence.
you remembered like it was yesterday. you didn’t want to forget. our minds were alive, swaying to the symphonies in the black.
how did we get here?
to be in a place that existed where nobody expected, because it shouldn’t have existed at all?
5pm runs are a way for me to get closer to nature and observe the phase where the trees, the animals, the sun, rustle and scurry to get ready for nighttime.
It is one of the getaways from facing what you call “responsibilities”. And every run and escape gives you a short high, as if limbs are being freed from tangled knots in a confined space, or how the body tries to resist itself from giving in but the mind tells it otherwise. Satisfaction.
It is as phenomenal as it was when at 5am, except time seems to rush at this hour, and everything else is warm and orange and the atmosphere nature gives off seems momentary, more urgent. It is as if you could never witness or observe and hear the same things again- just like a snowflake or a fingerprint. Every afternoon is a different meal with one same secret ingredient: The ability to ponder.
As I finished off my runs in the park, I would walk past the streets with a huge canopy of trees by the sides. I couldn’t help but notice this indescribable smell of ginger snaps- of baking cookies and burnt sugar. (It somehow reminds me of cotton candies. Or of grandma. Or a carnival. Or grandma at a Carnival eating cotton candies.)
Suddenly, I’m welcomed into nature’s oven or even Willy Wonka’s silly confectionary factory, where Oompa Loompas are scattered everywhere, running around ecstatically singing their hearts out and calling me in for a scrumdiddlyumptious dessert before any meals.
Suddenly, I’m not.
It’s like a whiff, an unexpected off-guard kiss on the nose that makes me stop on my tracks and start sniffing the mysterious cloud of air like a curious sniffer pup.
By the time I realized what I was doing, I chortled.
Nobody saw, but you made me look like an idiot, Katsura Trees.
Above all, you made me stop and breathe.