The consequences of rain on my lovely blue walls.

The consequences of rain on my lovely blue walls.

Almost six. Outside: rain. One of my favourite things to wake up to.

I believe that nothing can rival the light, the sun streaming through the windows, and the soul rising to meet it—but there is something about beginning the day while the world outside is being washed clean. Underneath the clear sky I feel free, but—the water forgives me.

It is precious: standing in the garden, the faint wind in my hair, the air damp on my face.

I go back to my desk, to think and write.

On the corner there is a big pipe where most of the rainfall travels from the roof to the canal. Days like these—my room sounds like a rainforest, or a stream. It is the main thing that has made me love this tiny space. Our house is not without its faults: it is old, it is neglected, it needs a lot of work. The roof almost always clogs, and when it does, I get an actual waterfall, right here on my walls, where the water has seeped and destroyed the paint, forming pockets that will eventually burst and form a pool at my feet.

I have learned to cope with it, in a city where floods are part of life. I have learned to put books on platforms, to raise electric cords, to have a ready change of sheets when the bed gets wet.

They call us Tagalog. It is said to have been derived from the term, taga-ilog, meaning river folk, as our ancestors preferred to live by the water. I used to ask my parents about it, have always wanted to visit provinces, fascinated at the thought of having ties to some deeper, richer history. They tell me I have been born in the city, as they were. They could hardly be pressed for stories as they have very little, to my disappointment, having lived here in Manila for most of their lives.

But no matter. Wherever I go, the water follows.

Good morning, M.


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