It’s past 10 pm, and from where I am, all I could see are faint traces of trees, and there’s not much to hear except crickets, the hum of the fan right above my head, and the occasional scurrying of a dog named Roque, who has declared himself master of the property after everyone has fallen asleep.
A few hours ago, while it was still scorching hot, I changed into something more comfortable—a very loose blue tank emblazoned with the words ‘Surf Eat Sleep’ (two of these things I could do quite expertly)—and, sweat profusely rolling down my skin, took the liberty of going to the beach, cellphone in hand (just in case I saw something interesting and wanted to take a photo of it). There it was again, amid the gentle sound of waves massaging the shore with the pace of a sleeping baby’s heartbeat. It was that stillness that had to come from somewhere. Certainly, it didn’t come from the sea, where there were occasional tourists zooming past while on banana boats and screaming for dear life, or partying aboard floating huts and getting drunk at 3pm.
I walked slowly back to the direction of the house, sand in between the soles of my feet and my rubber sandals, and looked around as I marveled at the sight of birds perched on branches and making themselves busy. I continued to walk, thinking about nothing basically, until I reached the small black gate that I had left unlocked. I was home.
And now, it’s almost 11pm. The stars are out, and they are beautiful.
And from where I am, on the second floor balcony where I have suddenly decided to write an entry once again after quite a long time, where I have come to realize at this point in my life that not all things really have to matter—these same stars, thousands upon thousands of them, seem to be dancing.