It’s early morning, or maybe not; no, I don’t know what time it is, but it’s quiet, what hour is as quiet as this I’m not sure, my watch, it’s in the other room. I hear my cigarette burning down. Quiet enough I can hear the smoke carving a path down my throat, lingering in my lungs before making its exit. Asahi beer cans filled with ashes, a faint buzz of machines. Warm summer nights, and during the day I can hear the sky heavy with rain promising to fall, droplets of water waiting to be born from the sky that is a womb
***
The thing is that … the rain never stops. It never stops. It’s always gray, wet, cloudy. There are always too many sounds. There are always too many things to think about, but not enough strength to do so.
***
When umbilical cords are cut do you hear the sound of the heart finally independent, a child leaving home? And the candle, smelling Provence, stretches out wick to expel some kind of coquette illumination. So quiet that I can hear shadows over my face, so quiet that my eyes dance midnight boogie, no I’m not going mad, but I could. Everyone can.
***
I grew up with noise and it is magnified in the way I think. Even my thoughts are noisy. I grew up with impatience. Who am I, What am I doing, I ask myself while watching the rain fall from the rim of my umbrella, in the middle of Ayala during rush hour.
***
In the next room is gentle breathing, chests heaving. While my lungs inhale smoke, another inhales dreams. It’s no surprise that smoke and dreams can fill rooms. And it’s almost two months and questions still hover in the air – I know what I feel and I can hear everything so clearly that all it has to do is connect with speech, and why is it that quietness brings the greatest noise… arms laden with words I want to give birth to, but they run around like mischievous cats that get stuck on trees, and what can I do to rescue them?
***
When the day arrives I find myself attached to filling my lungs. With air perhaps. And work. And the commute to and fro. And the daily routine bothers me. And the paychecks never seem enough, I don’t talk about the amount but the satisfaction of something worth all I’ve done. WHen I look back at the end of the day was everything worth it, does the end give justice to all the effort? Do you like what you’re doing?
***
I come home to my Love and put my arms around him and it’s so quiet like rain about to erupt, just like the end of May, the beginning of rain, and a girl writing, alone, in the dark.
How many people like what they are doing?
