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  • Writer's pictureTuananh


May 1, 2017

From the trenches hovering the dim lite corner of the room, my legs crossed in a frenzy like it was compressing every ounce of intelligence in my body to comprehend the compendium of notes that cast a shadow against my cup of hot ginger and a pair of double chocolate biscuits. An ice pack rests against my left shoulder as it gives me comfort late in the night when the agony of the stress is only amplified by the aches and pains of the crepitice of the bursa that lies deep to the work and sacrifices that I have gladly made to earn the progress and fortitude of accomplishment, a job well done. To leave a cornerstone marred only by my own creation is something beyond satisfactory , it is a rectifying feeling that although the road is endlessly long, it is a road worth the effort and worth all of the unforgiving prayers. The gallantly egotistic drama-queen that I have grown to adore, the elder man that I have fallen in love with from a morning greeting to the short conversations along the narrow walkway, the innocently passionate physician and his sharp blade that have taught us the bits and pieces of this minuscule complicated figure, to the braided champion of endearment and support. To be this far, to be this deep, I am blessed to find the masters of my craft to be those amongst us mere mortals, whose values are not only are tailored upon their own failures but to the few successes that so meekly find its way into the feeble minded souls that reflect upon them each and every day.

Never in life would I have imagined the crowd of characters that have crept their ideas of rowdy entanglement into my heart. The moments where we all freeze and the beads of sweat condenses above our brows just to realize the confusion or lack of any credible bullshit to offer; like a heavy fist thrust deep into our gut and still bound by the echoes of empty answers. Perhaps it is within this confusion, unfounded direction, and pure dependency amongst the shoulders of each other that we all have come to owe this small debt in life's yet lonely walk. These characters, I, included, have wrapped their welcoming embrace to this hermit and have pushed my shutter to open upon occasion; something unexpectedly nice to reveal, probably too much and too close for comfort.

A sleeping guide in the rear, a pair of nauseated sirens steering the front, and the compadre that have plugged me in religiously every morning, we found the winding and narrow road to Castries a polite adventure to say the least. A short visit to the local gentries, the local attires and crafts hung briskly against the cool breeze that have ushered us deep into the shadows. A gazebo nested three young friends gossiping of life's careless adventures. The melancholic artist that marked himself as the king of beasts (Lion King), yet his simple strokes and gliding choice of vibrant lamellae of colors found its way rolling into my pocket for the journey home. Perhaps this short leisure break, which was most unexpected and indefinitely indifferent, was a reminder that my stay although will be meek, yet it will find the exuberance of cunning adventures that will surely add to this old man's repertoire. So to the Pitons, I will see you again, and beyond the lens' aspect of Marlon's brief commute, I will surely find the connection to this place, if I have not yet already.

The Keys

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