She sat on a bench underneath the shade of a palm tree practicing what she wrote, I think, in a low voice. Her right hand moves while she reads as if she were narrating it to someone else. An invisible being?
The breeze plays with her hair. She fixes it only to be blown again by the warm wind.
I could stay here forever conjuring stories from everything I see, whatever caughts my attention. This is how it is supposed to be for a writer. You stop, write, see something and write again. Writing of what every thing or detail or situation you encounter at eyes view.
Yes, I could stay here for ever for I have been longging this moment for a while since the pandemic began.
But alas, my time is coming to an end. It is slowly approaching.
Would I be able to come tomorrow? And if I do, would this writing mode I am in right now will it come again?
Today is today and I will grab the moment it gave me and not think of tomorrow. Today is only starting and more writing is on the horizon.
The sun ascends, the horizontal line that marks its ascention is slowly reaching me on my bench. I feel its warmth. An announcement that soon this will end. And I am happy and contempt with what I have achieved. I am rejoiced in this moment.
The silhouette of my head has been drawn on the floor. The rays have reached me. It is time. Until, well, next time.