It rained today. It was a bit strange at first to watch rain falling from my window on the 10th floor. The strange part was having to look down just to see the splashes of the raindrops on the asphalt. In Cebu the road outside my home would already be dotted with puddles of brown, murky water growing larger by the minute as the rain kept falling. There were trees too with their branches bent and weighed down by their leaves soaked in rainwater. From the 10th floor, there is only the streak of water running across the glass window to tell if there is rain. Twenty six days into June and here come the rains like every year. The days, however, still linger longer than most times of the year. So this is the way summer gives out its last breath: dying with heavy rains and late sunsets.
The cold has also been coming in lately. For the past two months, all I could complain about was the heat. After two days of rain, I could scarcely remember how the summer’s heat felt like. That was always how summer was, now that I think about it. It reminds me of wasabi: how it burns you up in its intensity and just vanishes like some ghost right after. What it leaves in its wake is just what is outside my window now – the contemplative sight of rain falling down on the pavement. Tennis got called off. Studying got called off. Heck, call everything off. All that there was to do was to lie in bed, nap, or just mull over existence while listening to the rain fall. Maybe the mind is the proper refuge in times like these. Times when the view outside drawls on in a gray, contemplative state with a melancholic hue for whatever reason.
When the sun went down, I thought it was time for a walk. It was a long walk but it passed by unnoticed in the cool, night air. The puddles on the road were motionless. In their stillness, they were reflecting either starlight or the fluorescent lights from the office windows. My compact umbrella was dangling by its string on my thumb while I spun it around from time to time. It was nine in the evening and most of the cars were out of the road. There was only a long stretch of asphalt and a restless mind spitting out all kinds of thoughts and emotions. Strange how the rains can bring all of them out. Have they all been hiding in the summer? Just thinking about some can cut you like a knife. But you bring them back into memory anyway: a scene in the past, an act done, a word said or unsaid. Remembering can be such a guilty pleasure, maybe even a masochistic one. Then you take a breath and remember that it probably is just nothing. When it rains, it pours that’s all.
When it rains, it pours.
The rains have stopped now. There is nothing outside but the puddles, the cold, and the black night. And tomorrow I know the days will be shorter.