March 13, 2008

  • Amour.


    I always dreamed of being a Parisian. Just sitting outside a local cafe, the sun beaming and providing its usual warmth, whilst drinking a lukewarm cappucino with a beloved book in hand. Oh, or maybe a journal and pen to write down my thoughts as they trickle through my mind. Watching the nearby water fountain as the water sparkle in the sun, and the sound mixing in the collage of traffic and urban life.


    I always dreamed of meeting my love at this very moment of self-contentment.


    As if life couldn’t get any better, he invites himself to my table and introduces himself to me. He brings himself as a book of mysteries, and I am there sitting in front of this book, awaiting to uncover everything — everything there is to him.


    We would talk for hours about what is most important to us. Our dreams, goals, ideas, opinions. And we would find ourselves falling for each others gazes, and soon enough, something from within blossoms. The world stops just for our existence.


    I always envisioned the simple life. The innocence of falling so hard for somebody that nothing else ceased to exist in life but our love for each other. We would walk anywhere and everywhere as long as we were holding hands and holding on to each other. The smiles would never leave our faces. The sound of pure joy was nothing but the medley of our laughters.


    Maybe someday, this dream of P.C. would come true.
    In a serendipitous mistake of time, we will find each other again.