The Lake

We had a gathering at a church friend's apartment. I left late.

Missed the last train at the interchange, and tried to catch the last random bus that would bring me closest to home.

Bus 78 didn't follow the route that I was expecting. So I dropped along Penjuru. I think that's the name of the road.
Before me was quite a serene sight to behold. It was ordinary yet out of the ordinary.

The lake was placid, and there wasn't a single soul.
I could hear my thoughts, sequencing themselves - gently and melodically - with the patter of raindrops against the gravels.
I thought about my trip to Europe, the familiar and the foreign, the imaginary and the imagined, the hit and the misses, the quietness in the Metro station, haribo, the summer sundaes, and the train ride into the forest. And the lake!

I'm drifting away into an emotional ensemble of nostalgia and brokenness,
each trying to relief the other,
together a crescendo, and then - inevitably - a morendo.

Paper, poems and photos.
That's a good idea, for my final rendition.