When dream breaks into sleep, the television turns off in the middle of the show.
When everything is shrouded by mist, nothing 6 inches of you seemed to matter.
And when it clears, you can’t get used to seeing clearly anymore.
As if a pair of fogged goggles is all you need to survive in the sea.
It only occurs to you that you’re drowning when someone saves you.
Then everything seemed to return to that moment, that slap of silence that reset the clock.
Read this story somewhere about a tree and a rose. (if you start reading, read it all)
The rose always depended on the tree for shade, for shelter from the sun and rain. And the tree always prided itself on having such a beautiful company.
Interdepency, and each told the other just about everything they could possibly share until one day, the tree scattered its seeds and had not been very careful when one landed unfortunately just beside the rose.
The rose had to choose whether to tell the tree or not. If she does, she’s quite sure that the tree will have a hard time deciding to choose between his friend or his baby and she feels comfortable with neither of the choices.
But if she does not, she’ll be killed, uprooted soon when the seedling starts to grow.
“I used to tell you everything I had, problems I had that I told no one about, it just had to be you, so faraway, tall and mighty.
And now, when the problem is you..
I don’t know.”
And at the same time, the tree is getting tired from looking down all the time. What use is there to look at a miniscule dot of red in a field of purples, yellows and blues, and so obscured that he can’t detect her scent from a field of heady blooms?
So day by day, they drifted apart, as the tree tended to affairs more than 6 inches away from heart while the rose is stuck in her reverie, for the days are getting shorter.
And it did not help when she observed her partner who seemed to be distracted, more than ever. She can’t call out, for she is a very frail and small flower, and when she does, she’s always blocked out by the chatter of the poppies, the bells of the morning glories.
She always depended on the tree to bend down to her to speak.
And now, she could only look down at the seed and cry– beads of tear drops that nourished the soil, from which the ground where the rose used to stand, was replaced by a handsome young seedling..
The tree looked around, for he forgot which direction he was facing the last time.
He didn’t forget about the rose, as he scanned carelessly for a miniscule red dot.
But in its place..
He saw, as many red specks as there are, as the purples, yellows and blues..
To those who have bothered to read through it all, you might have known that I did not ‘read it from somewhere’.
But I’ve been reading it over and over in my mind, just in different variations, literal and figurative that when I penned it down, it just seemed so..written, as if someone wrote it long long time ago,