September at the Summit, 7th Floor

 

  1. A year changes even the same space. Here is elusive to pin on a map, a graph. A compass an inkless pen pointing north. Writing is a navigation.
  2. 305: The number remains at the door frame, painted in white. The big blue mug, the cold mango juice. Thin body covered in a thick blanket.
  3. Residence is a place to stay. Make the bed, pillows upright against the wall. Sit back. Dream about flying away. What is a chronicle of carelessness?
  4. 203: The sound of roommates screaming at each other to cooperate in a game. Outside, the city sleeps at midnight with the neon and streetlights on. Fog blanketing homes inspired a poem. A new semester means a new foreigner.
  5. How do you say goodbye? In my native tongue, it meant letting it be known. Asking permission. But really, remembering. Paalam.
  6. 105/118: Knowing it’s noon if the bells toll fifty meters away. The mirror and the clothes telling the obvious truths. The missing leche flan. Alone yet with three empty beds. Monthly reminder that you, like everyone who come and go, are a transient.
  7. Nobody is stranger. Everyone is a companion. Every Sunday mass sharing the same bread. Come night, a resident is a node in a network, sharing files sourced from outside. We are what we celebrate in a feast.
  8. 713: I remember: the Summit at the 7th Floor, the Edge of Glory. I felt the weight of all the things I own, the earthquake at 10 PM, the floor flooded with muddied water, the fear of being hit by lightning. Yet, I felt hundreds of suns I saw set but not rise, the impermanent moon glow, the warmth of being under a roof on high altitude, not being alone anymore.
  9. Be home: stop and occupy this space. You may remove yourself from here. If people remember you, you always remain. You become home.

“When are you leaving?”
By the end of September.

from ん, 2015 年 9 月 20日

 

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