When your life begins to move in a circle, a long weekend at month's end is a beautiful pain. Like a wound about to heal. Don't you just love to scratch it?
And for lack of better words, deliciously itchy when you have to satisfy the lust to be in-between terminals and there is no other choice but juice whatever is left at the tail-end of a payday and fill your backpack with barely enough to last for two nights in a place lying in some corners of a dream.
You can actually go anywhere. A shelf sitting by your door has every weekend escape ready at a drop of a hat. The night before, an island at the edge of the world, somewhere between love and pain presented itself in a recurring dream. Deserted beach. Swaying palms. And it is quieter than the confines in the attic of your silence.
On the day of your departure, the sky refuses to hang low. And you said to yourself, this weekend promises to get you out of the cycle that, in some point, erratic as it had been, and there was no way of telling, put you down deep into the damps.
The bus, half-empty, left past eight and in no time, the whole stretch of gray that had been your route for several times changed to aquamarine. And as if written in some forgotten page browned by time, you had to take the long way, stopping once in awhile, to take-in the view which is more scenic than it appeared in photos.
Under the piercing heat of the midday sun, with the five-kilometer-beach at your back, you find two small boats and a pea-green tidal river. As the boat cuts the calm waters, you uncover rolls of scenes ripped from the movie reeling inside your head.
to be continued...