Lunar Chant

Once, there was warmth.

I enter the room, everything white. The room is two stories high. A skylight lit up the room. Brisk blue is above you. Four walls painted in lily-white encloses. Photographs rest on their surface. Four walls have them in black frames. Plain and simple, no need of embossment. Its aim is to draw focus on the image it contains.

One side of the room holds images in black and white. They captured portraits of laughter and scenes as if the presence of the camera was unnoticed. Another side holds colorful pictures of landscapes; places gone, places admired and places that compose stories. Destinations. Some, were home. Greens and blues. Splats of red and some yellow spots. White cotton balls and all colors in neon on a black page. It all reminds you of all the things you could do, you can do. And things you probably would do again. Next to that wall, there's this wall. The plane I stand twenty-five inches from after entering. This barrier lets me in through a walnut door. A wall lantern sticks out on each of its side. Unlit. Turning my sight to my left, I see the wall scattered with polaroid pictures. The prints presents soul. Eyes, mouth, and hands. You could tell how they were moving without real motion. You could hear sounds of conversations and tunes without a catch of vibration. You even see moving scenes in your head. How lively it was, you feel too.

I've been to this room quite a few times. Whenever I decide to come, I just come. It's always there. Always ready to let me in. Anytime. Just like any other time, there's a long wooden table in front of me. Twenty-eight feet to be round. Familiar faces sit on a massive old dead trunk that lies on the floor, on each long side of the table. They all turn their heads my way, with the warmest smiles on. It's as if I was the one they've been waiting for, disregarding my unpunctuality. I scooted myself in between two fellows, not taking the spot at the end of the trunk bench.

We go through stories, we let out laughter every now and then. I am mostly glad we have the room to ourselves, for we are frolicking in expression uncontrollably. It is like a bash, without the sound of guitar and drums, and movements that follow along with their beat. No real music, no real dancing. Our dance is the gesture of our hands from elaborating, the music is the laughter itself. But all of it could get you sick and drunk if you lose focus and begin to think it's nonsense, unconciously dismissing yourself.

We are served joy on our plates. Some ordered comfort and a couple others ordered trust. We didn't swallow our meals whole. Some likes to share. Some would ask to taste a bite. And by the end, we are full of savories. We decide to munch on dessert. We all have jellos. Clear and transparent white. But to our surprise, each of them tastes differently. Mine tastes like chocolate swimming in hazelnut cream, with crumbs of crackers floating every here and there. Not too warm, not too cold. Just how I like it. The person on my right has jello that gives a jolt of berry flavors. Sweet once it touches your tastebuds, then stings in sourness right before you ingest it. I enjoyed the first part, but not so much after. But maybe that's how this person likes it. That's what makes this individual happy.

Our cups were filled with thick black liquid, almost like ink. I find it thrilling, gulping down a dose of refreshing liquid. Though iceless, it becomes cool once it touches your throat. Not so much of its appearance describes its taste.

Inside, I'm full of all the liquid. An amount needs to be leaked. I don't want to excuse myself right this moment. But I have to go. Dismissing my self, I exited the same door I went in through, expecting to come back with someone who misses my story, waiting for the sequel to be told.