The wait for rain has long been overdue, and it is only tonight that it has expressed its indignation towards the scorching heat wave of summer. I do not know how I might convey my fondness for rain; I love the rain, and it is only during rain that I get to hear the uncontaminated sound of nature. The sound of rain trickling above the aluminum rooftop of my room, and those that ebbs helplessly behind my semi-translucent window, never fails to impregnate my imagination with hopeless what-ifs. The tapping of rain as if a knocking stranger trying to greet everyone who opens for him a great grin of patience, emancipates the once leashed hound of audaciously speculating imagination. Even though the rain downpoured ephemerically, you can’t help but don a satisfied smile. Not only is it timely, because the heat has already cracked the earth, sucked its life-giving moisture, then circulates it half a world away. The rain never ceases to make me sentimental; think of things I wished to be, of things I wished not to be. The rain is the lubricant that slides off my handcuff nonchalantly away from my hands.

Beneath the thin skin from my forehead is a throbbing, pinching, screeching pain, the source of which I cannot trace. But amidst these limiting palpitations, I need to finish this not only to satisfy the frustrated writer in me, but also the need to conform to my organizer, of which a task was written to finish an entry today. Recently, I have become a slave to post-its and organizers. If I do not put it anywhere there, I will not do it.

No matter how hard I think nothing significant seems to pop out of my mind. Everything has been suppressed by the oppressing headache. Maybe, and I do fear this, that this entry may be short, and it would be not like me at all. I’ll meander away from conventional writing then to prove to myself that amidst pain, I go on. Pain is vindicative of man’s life. No matter what path we take, no matter how we plan and visualize our journey, we cannot escape being hurt. It is given in man to be hurt. Only those who rise up in spite being hurt are what make man alive. We cannot escape pain. It is man’s fate to be hurt, man’s fate to falter. It is a frailty of man. No matter how much we despise pain, it is inevitable. Just because we disgust it, doesn’t mean it’ll disgust us back.

Life begets pain. Love begets pain. Hope begets pain. Faith begets pain. Fate begets pain. Although I do not, or still in doubt of the existence of fate, it too begets pain. Hate begets pain. Pain begets pain. You may think that you can fight fire with fire, in some cases it is applicable, but in the context of pain, it just doesn’t fit. Expectations beget pain. Propriety begets pain. Impropriety begets pain. Anticipation begets pain. Anger begets pain. Patience begets pain. Waiting begets pain. Maybe at this moment in time, you get what I mean. Pain is the penultimate end and means of everything human. It is not an absolute end, for even pain catalyzes a beginning. Life begets pain. Pain begets life.

This eerie night, my headache has decided that I should rest early. The soporific trickles of rain outside my 4-cornered incarceration have called me to sleep, and who am I to deny the very thing I have been waiting for so long its request? Let me be iterative, the rain makes me sentimental. And it is only when I am sentimental that I get to outpour whatever it is that has been stuck the pipe of wishing due to fearfulness and reluctance. I always like to wear binoculars of idealism (no one is realistic, I should say, only closet idealists) to rosily imbue my crumbling reality like an outdated cookie forgotten inside a ceramic jar placed directly under the heat of the scorching sun. Rain is reality! Everything pours down. Everything falls down. But! Eventually, everything rises up again, forms another cloud filled with giddy moisture impatiently waiting for their emancipation. Rain is life! It connects heaven from earth. It touches everyone the same way as it touches everyone else. The rain reminds me of you! You, whose digital smiles, against the soporific murmurs of the rain, become one with the murmurs. I hear your voice, though I never did actually heartily hear it, every after gush of ephemeric rain. The rain tonight was ephemeral. I was hoping you won’t be. What if you’d stay? If I asked you, will you stay? Let’s not be ephemeral, shall we? You and me. ^_~,v