Once upon a time – for that was how stories were once told – there was an author walking on the perpetually damp sidewalks of Bay Point, California. She could not remember anything, except for how she built her dream house near Treat Boulevard, or how she sat on the railing before her old apartment was encompassed by a timeless flood. There were no calendars to organize anything because everything had been drenched – which made her brows furrow and navigate this place again. On a whim, she realized this was her home. Skies caved in by the way she thought it was like. She thought that if she could do anything amongst the debris, she could manipulate it back into an ageless form. The author hurried back into her old apartment, room to room, in search for an object she suddenly thought about. She failed to reclaim the image of it, abandoning her frail mind to wander back into her constructed metropolis.
The danger of this, however, is that we know the author weaved this to be her sense of naturalism, lost in ivy-crossed architecture and nostalgic rows of neighborhoods. There were no facts nor fiction, just this – a globe of practically nothing. But she loved it. There were so many occasions, before she’d forgotten; so many yesterdays, when her tongue teased a sour, copper aftertaste – like she’d swallowed something. Her head usually throbbed at these moments, but this time she drifted off to sleep. Monumental descriptions of sundial environments followed, in a faster time frame – she was inside of a car next, chasing for … well, she didn’t know. The author decided that, instead of showcasing the scenery in her head, she’d tell everything. Some of us know that most writers’ attempts to utilize Tolstoy’s rhetoric were proven awkward and unsuccessful. But she continued to tell, regardless.
In a blink, she was hosting a ball party in the Spring for a celebrated soldier. People piled every
corner of the ballroom until she thought of a small cabin located near the river banks. Undulating
waters calmed her nerves while she continued to fetch in more ideas of what was ideal and what
was not. War, materialistic culture, sociopolitical climates – those were the few she hated the
most, though,but yet again, she could not remember why.
When we realized that the author had no bridge between reality and fiction, she, at almost the
same time, tasted that distinct aftertaste like it had been contractually stuck with her for an
eternity. However, we noticed that she told herself the image of this taste – in almost
molecular, yellow hard circles sheltered in her stomach. The road – when or where did they it
appear? – broadened farther on, with cluttered cargos and fruits, low-hung roofs of markets, and
a dilapidated cubbyhole of a goldsmith. The sidewalks were no longer damp as she walked forward. Self-consciously, the author stiffened when she saw only mist and light ahead of her, beckoning her in an intriguing manner. She could only imagine a church at this juncture, circled with swallows gliding and long, waxed candles as her devout neighbors flocked into a single-filed line. For the first time, she did not explain her reason for this. Withdrawing herself from the world she created into the world she lived in reminded her of the insistent summons of the church bells. Acrid fumes and a set of aureate lights welcomed her in, quickly, whilst she noticed a lavender, floral top. Standing in this overarching dome with her and everyone else was her grandmother, who had broken continuity of the author’s illusions, suddenly, and she sedately trailed after her before her grandmother genuflected. “Mama!” she called.
Followed by a familiar scent and smile, she replied with, “Anak! Hurry, the mass is starting.”
We still do not know, though, if this was her actual reality or memory. But we’re better off by
knowing that the author was finally home in peace.