It is past midnight on a stormy Sunday, and once again, I can’t sleep. After weeks of intense rip-your-skin-off-crawl-into-a-freezer kind of iron heat, it has finally rained. However, what started as a refreshing light shower has turned into a torrential downpour. Aside from the fact that Manila is already city prone to major traffic and flooding, the Ondoy catastrophe in September of 2009, which led to the loss of countless lives and homes, most people are justifiably traumatized. If one wasn’t directly affected by the flood, you knew someone (or several people) who had lost everything because of it.
While I love the rain (I actually prefer rainy days than sunny ones), I have to admit that the weather is worrisome. I’m lucky enough that I don’t live in an area prone to flooding, but I know a lot of people who are. And while logic dictates that no matter how furious the wind blows against my window, I know that it won’t shatter. Logically, I know that. But all the creaks, bangs, and roars are…unsettling. And I usually love this stuff—stormy evenings, I mean.
There’s really nothing to do but stay put as the steady drone of the wind and rain echo in the background as I read, type, and eventually, will attempt to count sheep. And I’m apparently not alone in this.
While I often find Sundays strange and sad and somber (for reasons I can’t explain), there’s something to be said about being forced to stay in…to wade through the rising waters of our dreams and hopes and obsessions.
And I really love listening to Etta James on Sundays…