In Etretat

Days are old like a withering tree whose leaves are gradually blown by the wind into the barren earth.

I tried to hold on for the past few days in search for a better resolution to the predicaments that seem to last forever. I stride along the road looking at every footstep I take and at the dust thrown by the soles of my black rugged shoes.

I went by as far as I could, not minding where would my sanity want me to take. I came across an old man carrying a can of white paint. He drooped as if his backbone would break; as if he was carrying tons of load on his shoulders.

The old man was not conscious that the paint was being emptied by the hole under the can. I overtook the man and signaled to him the long white line he has created along the road. He looked back and scratched his head. “That doesn’t matter anymore. I am nearing my destination.”

I didn’t understand what the old man said. I stopped and stood for a while to think as the man walked away leaving white marks along the road that would surely remain for a while unless rain would pour down continuously for the next few days. . .