no writing without rain — an excuse

Tonight, out in the balcony, I see no stars shining, feel no cold wind blow. The infant next door is crying — it is all the sound I hear. That, and the clacking of the keys as I type this. The lights are all out, the air is still. It does not feel like December at all.


My Decembers are usually filled with moments, but this year it whisked by without so much as a by-your-leave. I cannot recall a single, vivid memory that would mean for years to me; no “spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings” to recollect in tranquility. I have not taken pictures, nor sung the same song upon waking and before sleep. It feels very strange to have no space nor time nor inclination to wax sentimental over anything.

But perhaps I merely have not been paying attention.


I remember riding a jeepney and getting so lost in thought that I had traveled several miles before I realized that I’d missed my stop. I do not remember what I was thinking about. What I don’t write down, I forget. What I write, I embellish, and so, my memory is full of holes and little fictions, of moments missed and made up.


I know that one night I said I’d go to the corner store to buy Coke Zero, and instead ran my feet raw to the village playground and perched on a swing. I remember making of myself a pendulum, caught in wild highs and lows, and wishing I were more like a steady metronome. I remember tears. I do not remember what for. I cry over many things, few of them important, and so I try not to bother to take note, as I am self-absorbed as it is.


The one nice thing about walking in the lightless part of the subdivision at night is that if you look up you can see the faint, fixed light of stars. This time of the year, when houses burn with reds and golds and greens that flicker and scatter and scream, all I want is to stroll around and lose myself in a place where it is not too noisy and not too bright, where there is no loneliness or panic in solitude, and I can sit very, very still.


The other day I dreamed that I woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of the neighbors screeching in revelry. I dreamed they were igniting firecrackers and dancing in the street, longnecks in their hands and laughter on their lips. I dreamed that I got out of bed, feet cold and blood boiling in my head, and yelled out the window at them to STOP. In the morning, I rose early for work and learned that I was not dreaming.


Sometimes I can’t help but think that nothing is worth anything, and that everything we’re all about, the items that fill our planners and the updates posted to our Facebook walls, all the people and places and objects we cram into our days and nights, are mere distractions. That what we call life is just a waiting. That we try to do so much, pursue ever-fleeting happiness and even dare to “change the world,” to be able to say it meant anything.

By the time I finish brewing my morning coffee and laying out all I need for the day ahead, I have usually succeeded in banishing the thought. This, it seems, is what it means to grow up.


This is how I know that I feel “fine”: when I do not write, not even in my head, and do not feel like reading Bukowski.


4 thoughts on “no writing without rain — an excuse

  1. Pingback: a bit on writing and vulnerability | tenant on the top floor

  2. Pingback: Notes on in-between spaces | tenant on the top floor

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