Turn the tap off, Pollen.
Today, I went out through the window of the office and sat by the ledge, five floors away from the ground. Friends helped me do it.
The view wasn’t much different from when I merely peered outside. Rust-colored roofs and the familiar view of the road I crossed whenever going to school revealed themselves before me. The bakery’s store sign in green, yellow and red stood out from the landscape. A babysitter rocked a toddler on a far away balcony to my right. Cars and pedestrians kept moving and contradicted the stillness of sun, which didn’t set as fast as I hoped it would. It was a sight that I knew wasn’t enough to indulge in and mull over and over.
But, feet pressing on rough concrete as I sat on them, I was much closer to everything and the sky seemed more real than how it was usually portrayed in movies. It made me want to fly. It made me feel like I could.
And the air, though it was thin and slightly chilly and not enough for my lungs, was complimented by the warmth gushing out of the air-conditioning unit humming beside me. I was out of breathe but alive.
I was taking everything in and everything overwhelmed me.
What made it a moment was the moment and the magic of what taking that risk meant. It meant ticking an item of bucketlist, which meant a step closer to saying goodbye. It meant outgrowing my old self and being brave and being fearless in a sense. And it meant remembering how it felt one night in Vigan, sitting at the balcony overlooking the street across the hotel I was staying in, when I commemorated the last press conference I attended even before it was over.
I was outside again, somewhere high and I felt as invincible as I shouldn’t be. The world felt real and wonderful at the same time. The clouds were made of cotton and they warmed my heart. But the more I caught my breath feeling those good things, I remembered having to leave them behind. I remembered leaving them behind because I had to keep moving at some point.
I love too much and this, they’ll never know.