Framing the still point, framing it--this was the point of your own utterly still posture. It was windless, thus, there was no blurring of the image.
|The context, where you stooped to watch|
|And then it was full morning. You stretched on your back on the bed and waited for stirrings of life below, the host calling you down for the promised walk. There was air, pure air, rare air but not enough of it for a wind. The call came.|
Before it was time to clear the room and pack your stuff in your backpack, you leafed once again through your journal, a random turning of pages, until you eyes fell on a verse by the Sufi poet Rumi, the one you had forwarded by SMS to a recuperating friend somewhere in Cavite after his return from a hometown visit to Antique.
Not only was it apt but it captured the turmoil, the anger you had gone through. Yes, all that was done and gone. You were heady and ready for the future.
It may be that the satisfaction
I need depends on my going
away, so that when I've gone
and come back, I'll find it
|Before sundown on a Friday, you were back in the boat, near the prow, bidding goodbye to all that. You shut your eyes as you neared the shore and hastily threw an imaginary pebble into the water packed with great intention to return.|