Onsra: A novel

Chapter Five: Sunsets and Painted Skies

My entire life, I'm surrounded

By car horns and car lights in red,

But I end in bed lonely.

The beeps overlapping and loud

In my head and can't hear the sound

Of my voice drowned so cruelly.

I've been in the asphalted road

For long—just walking, never rode

Nor hitched as loaded baggage

Just to reach my unknown end point

Hoping to arrive 'tween the joint

but disappointed and raged.

I stop writing, and take a rest for a while.

I am at the shore, writing my tenth poem—well, this is not an ordinary poem that most poet usually write in their free verses and prose poetry. This poem is called Cywydd llosgyrnog, pronounced as ców-idd Illos-gr-notheg. It is a Welsh poem. And among all Welsh poem that I stumbled upon, I can confidently say that this is the easiest.

I make my toes dig the white sand, and feel its grainy texture. It feels cold—not freezing cold—it's the kind of cold that gives nothing but peace and relaxation. Oh, I could live here forever, and I still wouldn't mind, so long as I'm here and away from the city's chaos. I don't need to drown myself with songs and words while I am here, just the mere existence of the sea already gives me comfort—its as if its coaxing me that everything will be alright with its feather-light-like-waves slowly touching my wet feet covered with sand. I so much needed this, more than I ever know. 

"It's already one week since we arrived," Diana said slowly, interrupting me with my thoughts. She sits beside me and I look at her as she is about to continue what she's saying, "It seems like you're loving the place, should I look for a house for you to live in?" she jokingly asked me. I look at the sea and the sun that is near to its setting. It's nearly five.

I never thought of buying a house here and it's now tempting as she mention it. I want to buy a home here on my own, and maybe live here permanently?

"Hmm. Now that you mention it, why not?" I answered, still looking at the sea, and continue, "But, not now. I still need to finish this story I'm writing, and I still need a lot of things to figure out before I decide."

"Woah. So you are really considering it?" She looks at me incredulously, never believing the things I just said.

"You are going to give up the malls, the coffeeshops, your beautiful house and the city life, just to live in an island?" Diana added, "I mean, I can bear have a vacation, but live here, are you kidding?"

"Peace is not found in material things nor living in luxury, Diana. It's found in the place and the people where one so belongs. And I believe, it's here where I really belong." After saying those words, I give her a smile. The first smile, that I can genuinely call a smile and not just a stretch of the muscles on my face, for as I smiled, my heart too, smiled.

Silence. Finlan Diana, is speechless. I don't know as to where she's speechless about though, maybe, with my words, or with my smile, or maybe both? I don't know.

"Anyway, Diana, I think I'm ready to go back. I have already written more than 3 chapters for my novel, and I already have a solid plot. So, I think, that this will do, this will surely guide me while on the track of writing this, " I said to her, as she stand up and  try to get rid of the sand that has stuck themselves on her white shorts.

"Okay, then. I will just go back to our beach house and find an available ticket going back home," she smilingly said to me, and I nod and smile at her as my thanks.

Having my vacation in this island really helps me on waking my sleeping writing capabilities up, after all that has happened to me, I realize that I really do need a break. Just like the sentences I write in my stories, having commas for them to have a pause and make the readers rest from reading, I as an author, needs to have my own comma in life too, and I'm happy that I did. I wonder, if my sentence did not stop writing and did not take any commas for a pause, did I became breathless and slowly die? Maybe, and maybe not.

I decided to write a story in General Fiction, that tackles about love and its lesson—I have my own twists for that ofcourse. Many commends me with how unique I write my stories, they do not just fall in the fictitious world, they too have the taste of reality and it shows, and they don't sugarcoat—well, with the help of my dear editor, working with her even just for how many months has help me to become a better writer.

I am excited with this novel I'm writing on, I already have a title for it: On Hands Tied and Eyes Locked, and I am also writing poems on the side when I feel like so drained when I work on my novel, it's just so refreshing when I get to learn new forms of poetry in the different parts of the world.

And speaking of poetry, I haven't finished this tenth poem I'm currently working on!

My entire life, I'm surrounded

By car horns and car lights in red,

But I end in bed lonely.

The beeps overlapping and loud

In my head and can't hear the sound

Of my voice drowned so cruelly.

I've been in the asphalted road

For long—just walking, never rode

Nor hitched as loaded baggage

Just to reach my unknown end point

Hoping to arrive 'tween the joint

but disappointed and raged.

A black racing car has hit me,

For me to see reality:

Ends really doesn't matter,

For 'tis about finding the track,

I once lost, learn reroutes, and back

To mock road—

I scribbled in my notebook, "To mock road—I'll be better?"

"No, no, it sounds wrong." As I scratch out the words I'll be better.

The page where I am writing the tenth poem, looks so dirty. This usually how my notebook looks whenever I write my poems. Dirty and rowdy, that no one but I could understand. The second line of the third stanza is at the top of the first stanza, making arrows (that doesn't look like an arrow) as my guide.

"It just doesn't fit!" I frustratingly put down my pen to the page where the poem is written, close the notebook, and put it down on the sand to make it my pillow.

I need another rest.

When my head finds the notebook, I then close my eyes and feel the salty air creating dance steps, twirling and tossing as if imitating how waves crash when angered. I hear birds singing along the tune that the waves create when it kisses its lost love for reuniting, only to be separated again.

"To mock road—I won't…"

I immediately open my eyes, when a word suddenly popped in my mind just seconds ago! I grab my notebook in a hurry that has sand on its back—never caring to have it removed. The thought of finishing another poem makes me blush. It always makes me blush whenever I beautifully end a poem.

"To mock road—I won't falter." I fastly wrote in my notebook, the pen strokes I made is evidence of my hurry.

I won't falter…

Such a powerful line for this poem to end. My heart is bursting with so much happiness and pleasure for writing another masterpiece!

I rewrite the poem with a smile, on my face. Under the setting sun that reflects on the mirrors of the sea, I paint my words in purple, orange, and pink, just as how the skies are—talking to me that this is not my end, that this mixed colors reflecting the skies, is the start for another tomorrow—another day where I will wait for sunsets and painted skies, and for another painted words that will keep me going.

My entire life I'm surrounded

By car horns and car lights in red,

Still I end in bed lonely.

The beeps overlapping and loud,

In my head I can't hear the sound

Of my voice drowned so cruelly.

I've been in the asphalted road

For long, just walking—never rode

Nor hitched as loaded baggage

Just to reach my unknown end point

Hoping to arrive 'tween the joint

But disappointed and raged.

A black racing car has hit me,

For me to see reality:

End really doesn't matter,

For 'tis about finding the track

I once lost, learn reroutes, and back

To mock road—I won't falter.

Under the setting sun and its silhouette reflecting in the mirrors of the calm sea full mysteries, I shouted. 

Under the painted skies that reflect the words I paint in the sand-covered notebook of scratches and masterpieces, I shouted.

I shouted all my hopes, that disturbed the birds from their fitful sleep. I shouted my pain, anger, and doubts that is answered by the wind's comfort.

Because after this, I won't falter.