Those who know me can attest the actuality of two fundamental aspects in my life: I sing songs that are (1) out of tune and (2) out of time.
The former, apparently, annoys them as it merely falls under the category of ‘stupid noise’. The latter, on the other hand, makes them wonder about the precise year or century where my existence is forever moored.
Let me take you down, cause I’m going to Strawberry Fields.
And I’m going to hitch a ship called Sea Witch and sail the Carribean and the Atlantic. Sweat on my palm as I hold its rope and watch its banners flap and sway and dance its infinite grace in the unbridled wind. Salt water on my cheeks and unkempt hair and tattered clothes.
Here comes the sun.
On the rolling plains of Mongolia and golden sands of Morroco. Dust and mud and wagon and horses. And at the end of the day, we’ll build bonfire and roast turkey. We’ll recite poetry and retell forgotten myths. Old gypsies in their ancient ways, under the quivering stars. Stretching and savouring the summer wind, near the Hobbitshire.
It is 1814 and all we need is love.
And last Saturday I was in Los Banos and I met my adviser and Ate Tess and we were caught in a sleet of pouring rain. We were running and we were drenched.
I must have grown up, I realized, for I can no longer remember the last time I’ve excitedly waited for the clouds to burst and the first day I’ve cursed the small sign of drizzle.
But last Saturday we were caught in a sleet of pouring rain and we were running and our shoulders and hair were soaking in childhood recollections; our feet heading towards the old times in our lives.
Some may accuse me that I’m a romantic, and perhaps they are correct and I am. But hey, come to think of it: What’s the sense of time-travelling if you’re not?
Strawberry fields forever.