But there's always this part of me that likes to "Keep the Faith"
It's an Indian summer when you go back to Japan. Your luggage decorate the parlor, soiled clothes still unpacked. You wonder what's next. After where you've gone, what's next? You're in that inevitable downward spiral, and it's unlikely you'll ever go back to your former glory. You collapse on your couch, your ears are still blocked from the change in altitude. You let the dull traffic noises wash over you and lull you into a shallow sleep. You hate thinking about the future because it never turns out the way you want it to be. You contemplate quitting and becoming a baseball player instead, but that would be too much of a delusion. You're too old to become anything else. You're too old to become anyone else. Somewhere in that lucid dream of yours you're a superstar and you make a home-run. Everyone cheers for you and everyone loves you. They raise you up on your shoulders because you're a hero.
You wake up and wonder if everything is going to be the same old routine for the rest of your life. You work, you go out to eat, and you go home to sleep. You yearn for the days when everyday was full of optimism and renewed hope, like there's something out there waiting for you. When you could still be anything and everything. You're tired, and the empty house doesn't help any. It's too quiet, too clean. It's missing something else.
The sound of the lock turning resounds in the silence. Like the score of a suspense film, it forebodes something. Something you already know. You spare a moment of doubt at the sharpness of your senses, and deny the fact that could only mean one thing. Impossible. You make it a point not to look back on the things you've given up on. You don't bother with the past, and with the future. You live for the now.
And that now has a man stumbling in your hallway, lugging bags twice as many as your unopened ones. His clothes are rumpled and he looked sick, circles dark and ominous under his eyes. He blushes when he eyes your furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips. There he is, looking so painfully out of place in your living room, like a misplaced piece of furniture not included in the latest redecoration effort.
He peeps under his fedora for a glance at your expression. He's desperately thinking of a suitable explanation but eventually settles with, "I'm home."
It dawns on you that you don't need details. At least not for now. What matters is that he's here. He's back. You can listen to whatever he has to say later, but for now you let the relief wash over you. You don't think about the future because it doesn't always turn out the way you want it to. You don't think about anything else because they're fruitless worries. He's back and now you can rest easy because he's there to carry the load with you again.
With as much casualty as you can muster despite the galloping pace of your pulse, you say, "Welcome back."
You wake up and wonder if everything is going to be the same old routine for the rest of your life. You work, you go out to eat, and you go home to sleep. You yearn for the days when everyday was full of optimism and renewed hope, like there's something out there waiting for you. When you could still be anything and everything. You're tired, and the empty house doesn't help any. It's too quiet, too clean. It's missing something else.
The sound of the lock turning resounds in the silence. Like the score of a suspense film, it forebodes something. Something you already know. You spare a moment of doubt at the sharpness of your senses, and deny the fact that could only mean one thing. Impossible. You make it a point not to look back on the things you've given up on. You don't bother with the past, and with the future. You live for the now.
And that now has a man stumbling in your hallway, lugging bags twice as many as your unopened ones. His clothes are rumpled and he looked sick, circles dark and ominous under his eyes. He blushes when he eyes your furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips. There he is, looking so painfully out of place in your living room, like a misplaced piece of furniture not included in the latest redecoration effort.
He peeps under his fedora for a glance at your expression. He's desperately thinking of a suitable explanation but eventually settles with, "I'm home."
It dawns on you that you don't need details. At least not for now. What matters is that he's here. He's back. You can listen to whatever he has to say later, but for now you let the relief wash over you. You don't think about the future because it doesn't always turn out the way you want it to. You don't think about anything else because they're fruitless worries. He's back and now you can rest easy because he's there to carry the load with you again.
With as much casualty as you can muster despite the galloping pace of your pulse, you say, "Welcome back."