nursing a broken heart, he went back to that place that circumstance once almost forced him to call home; that place where people's skins were darker than their eyes. he wanted to once again find solace in their wisdom and their uncanny ability to reduce reality into simple, somber sentences.
it began not too long ago, coming home from work, his heart began to beat irregularly. dancing on its own arrhythmic beat, he had it checked by a cardiologist who said that he was having heart murmurs. coming out from the doctor's office lead him to think what his heart was trying to say...
just a few days back, in the heat of a traffic altercation, a piercing pain on his chest led him back to his doctor. after a series of tests and even more tests whose names he could not remember, less even spell, his doctor muttered, "your heart is not pumping enough blood as it should. it looks as if it's tired."
hence the break from city life and the mad rush of everyday necessary routines. a visit to the village elder, the most powerful of them all, confirmed his suspicions of his very own denial.
after a moment of silence as the old man listened to his pulse on his wrist, he looked up and said, " dong, your pulse is not well. it's slow, weak. slow, as if it is bidding it's time. tarrying, like it's waiting for something, someone to come back."