spring stuns. not so much with its colors. but with its persuasion.
suddenly, everyone is in agreement. everything must be right. all should be perfect.
he is the jay-z wannabe next building. the one i thought never got game. today, he is blistering. he spits rhymes as he awaits his school bus. he freestyles. tight enjambements. masculine rhymes. about this bitch at school. this girl who never gives him respect. his word.
my version of his story, the prose in my mind, says, she doesn'’t love him.
i pass by him as i make it home from work. i am shamed by his tight rhymes. i am reminded of my dismal posts. my slack prose.
i vow to make it good today. i will try. for spring is here. and spring is compelling.
i get into my apartment. and all too quickly, my resolve is down. i see plates upon unwashed plates in the sink. unread magazines, stale weekend paper carpet my floor.
i give up.
i open my emails. a friend, a writing partner, is nasty. he disdained my tupac post.
why are you wasting your time? do you think by that (tupac post) you could say you could write about anything?
i am stunned. by his ferocity. by his vehemence. but i agree with him. most easily.
you want to write about stuff of import? he asks. i nod, reading him.
write about true things. write about love, he commissions me. easy for him to say. he writes for an abs-cbn soap in manila.
i look around my apartment. i don'’t see love. no love comes knocking at a filthy flat.
i walk back towards the next building. the young rapper is gone. could be half dozing already. in his first morning class. daydreaming. of tighter rhymes. killer beats.
i take the first bus. to where, i don'’t care. i take a seat behind a couple. gray hair, liver spots. retired people.
they insist on holding hands. like our bus is about to collide. to ram into a raging amtrak.
i ask them. can i take your picture? they don’'t refuse.
i am stunned. at first. i see the trees outside. they balance sunbeam. in their branches.
then i remember. it is spring.