Enough

A Short Story

By: N. Mozart Diaz

They all leave.

No matter what I do or say, I’ll always end up alone. I guess the universe likes seeing me out on my luck — figures. The movie was over, lunch was finished, the jokes and conversations that flowed out is gone, and now here I am, walking down the bustling streets of Baguio hollow and empty once again.

The wind picks up and the rain seems to pour in sideways. I didn’t need to look more miserable than I already was. I make my way to the closest bistro to wait the rain out. I pick a seat right next to the musician setting up his guitar and mic for the evening performances. It’s 5:30 now, and it’s starting to get dark.

I order a glass of house wine and take out a book from my bag. Flip it open to where I was and time slows down and quickens around me.

I look up to see a glass of wine set before me, I look up and the world is dark. I look up to look at the musician, trying to fix the feedback the mic keeps giving. I look up and he starts singing, drowning out all the noise in the bistro. I put my book down and listen to the song, loudest where I am, as if the booming music and the wine would fill the hollowness in my soul.

It’s 6:30, I’ve just finished my second glass of wine and the next set of musicians are taking the stage, it’s a duet now. My guess is as good as any, but I know that they’re just going to sing love songs.

I finish my wine and look around the gaiety of the bistro. In my half drunken haze, I think I see it now.

It doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter that I always end up alone. That they leave me. They have their own lives, and mine shouldn’t center around them.

I see it now.

I can see that everyone hurts you in some way, no exception. Everyone hurts us and we need to find those worth suffering for. If we subscribe to the idea that we should leave all those that hurt us, we would live a terribly lonely life.

But there are the people that only hurt us. The people who don’t give recompense for what they do. They should be left.

I’m thinking about the people in my life. I love them. At least most of them. They are worth the shit they place me through.

But I can’t live forever around them.

I take out one of my notebooks and write on the back, already full of doodles, sketches, and quotes from my professors that make no sense out of context. I intend on making the most of this clarity formed in the midst of this bistro.

I write.

“I am enough. For what is wheat when people think it is grass. I am enough. If I am worth something later, then I am worth something now. I am enough. For a tree in the middle of an immense forest is still a tree even if no one acknowledges its presence. I am enough, and I am powerful beyond measure. No one can take that away from me. I am enough. I am. I am. I am.”

I look up one last time before leaving, the duet sings and half the bistro is drunk. I stuff all my belongings back into my bag and ask for my bill. I pay and make my way down to my jeepney station. The wet road and the glistening orange streetlights become my companion like they share the same secret I just came across. One of the secrets of the universe, crawling up to me in a half-drunken haze. The wind and the weak rain are in on the secret too. The world seems right.

I am enough.

I am. I am. I am.

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