Days, weeks passed. The rain came and went. The sun rose again. And I, as any witness to a miracle, must and did go about my life once more.
I went back to my dusty bookshop that I kept beneath the apartment I rented. The minutes crept slowly as did the customers. Books, that was my life, I read and re-read them. It was like I was more at home between the folds of a book than in the bustle of midday streets. In all honesty, I would sometimes, sometimes, rarely, not always, even steer a customer away from my collections if he happened to eye a favourite of mine. I treated the bookshop more as a private library than a business since city living did not allow space for my shelves. It was short of a wonder how I kept myself fed and sheltered, perhaps it was only that I was well mannered enough and always had a smile prepared for my visitors that I happened to survive. Not a boast, but I had the privilege of owning the favourite neighbourhood bookshop.
But yes, I did live, as all witnesses to miracles, in a certain decreased pallor, a lessened vivacity. There was something missing in my smile, my customers said, even asking if I was sick. I could no longer find joy in books and their made-up stories. There was no more point in castles in the sky. Even the masterpieces seemed contrite.
I let one day pass as uneventful as the last. I would as my habit, open-shop, clean-up, go up to my one room apartment, and go to bed so that I might once more dream of her eyes. This was how I pledged to live my life hitherto that rainy night, turning a vocation of words to a vocation of spaces.
© 2012 Jay Crisostomo IV