As the morning sun filtered through the branches of the ancient plane tree and cast dappled shadows on the ground, I found myself in my usual spot, leaning against the hardwood bark, suffering from a headache as if my skull was literally going to crack like an egg. My routine this morning was a ritual of sorts; stumbling out of bed, struggling with the throbbing head, and seeking solace under the soothing shade of the tree.
With every sip of my coffee, as dark and intense as the soil under my feet, I found clarity amidst the fog of fatigue. Sunday provided a brief respite, a respite, from the relentless flow of time, allowing me to dive into the lap of nature, to seek solace in the whispering secrets of the ancient tree.
As rushing travelers in suits passed me in a blur of motion, I couldn’t help but think of the path not taken. What would my life be like if I had not chosen the poet’s path? The thought of such a frantic existence, constantly dependent on the demands of others, filled me with a deep sense of unease.
While a light breeze crackled overhead, I took refuge in the lines of poetry dancing in my mind. There was a certain rhythm to life, a delicate balance between chaos and calm, and I was determined to adhere strictly to the latter.
Some view life as a cold and indifferent force, but for me, life was a canvas waiting to be painted with the colors of human experience. Those who cannot appreciate the miracle of existence and remain blind to the beauty that surrounds them can never truly call themselves living artists.
I remember a fleeting moment, a chance encounter with a mysterious lady at a bar. His recognition of my poems sparked a chain of events that led to an appointment across the sea. But when the appointed day came, she was found abandoned on a windy bank with a bouquet of flowers meant for a love that never came true.
A year later, while on the same shore, looking at the endless blue, you find out that it is time to quit. With trembling hands, I placed the crumpled paper, stained with coffee and breakage, into a glass bottle, unable to continue drifting among the waves.
He observed that as the bottle moved towards the depths of the dream, carrying its unrealized weight, a feeling of relief came over me. Some loves are doomed to remain unrequited, but we may have made room for their new beginnings, the possibility of a love that can weather its storms in time.
And so I walk away from the sea with a bittersweet smile; While the cups are arranged in women’s memories, the poetry of life continues to emerge one by one.s