The tides, 'Time and tide wait for no man', but I bet they certainly do squeeze a few halts on a single life and the episodes of singlehood. That's all they've been cursed to do-- to tick and to wave out moments, then weave them into untamed memories: the lazy sunrises and the orange sunsets, the noisy morning chirps of solos on the mahogany trees, and the unfeathered chick who wonders why mum hasn't flown yet amidst her many feathers. Anyway, I don't believe in a Mrs. Right lurking somewhere with a faulty GPS compass in her fanny pack, which blurs my location every time she palms it and alerts with a beep, anytime I get close; and I don't believe in fairy tales either-- love at first sight, true love's first kiss and its cohorts of fancies.

When asked last who my kind of girl was, I bubbled a smile, pinched a thought and said " She is one who would dare me to be more of myself than to become my peers. She is one to wonder how mere dust could be crafted into a figure of such perplexity, amidst complexity and bafflement." Oh she's one to remind me of the minuscule, the intangible details of my plans and strategies. I call her woman who would teach our children the steps of faith in God and mannerism, greasing them with soothing palms and rebuking in love when they curse or fault. Justice and mercy, the balance of being.

Tender but crazy, with many dots of funny. I may sound hopeful like the politician across the street. I may sound wishful and asky about my kind of girl but no, I have already found her.. She's a passer-by down the street. She's a sitting mate in the public transport. She's the waitress who lipped a smile when we arrived at the diner and gestured us to a seat. She is everywhere I can see, and everywhere the legs can foot. The question therefore should be 'Am I working on myself enough to be her kind of man?'