Not/Writing About Love

Tonight, I don’t want to write about love. I don’t want to write about a failed romance or broken promises. I would like to write about how a lightning as sharp as the sword used by the samurai, with its pointed tip and jagged edges, slashed open the nimbus clouds in the afternoon while the world in this corner was busy with humans typing away on their keyboards, talking to someone on the telephone, stopping by a cubicle to chat with a colleague, or knitting their brows to conjure up that next big idea, the one that would make the bulbs above their heads light up.

As the lightning poked the sky, a downpour began. The raindrops hit the ground, unmindful of how the city dwellers hate the rain because it makes their commute harder and longer, unless they are in bed, hugging and cuddling someone with the cool breeze and the gentle splatter of the rain outside serving the music to their dance. Beyond the city walls, the farmers rejoice and thank Heaven as the rain seeps through the soil and nourishes the grains of corn or rice planted in their fields.

I stepped out of the concrete edifice that had been my dwelling for the last eight hours, sometimes fifteen, a sad fact but a fact, nonetheless. I opened my red umbrella and felt, heard, the raindrops land on it and after, they fell to the ground and formed puddles at my feet that wetted my pants. I walked the street to the train station and chanced upon a boy of seven selling sampaguita. No umbrella over his head, nothing to protect him from the angry rain. While the sharp rain hit his head, his whole body, as he shivered in the cold, I heard the gentle plea uttered by his eyes as he raised his arm towards me, his hand clutching the stringed flowers. I took out a bill and bought some of his goods while I covered his head with the red umbrella in my hand, and told him to go home.

Tonight, I don’t want to write about love, the kind that makes me giddy and dreamy, the kind that makes me smile as I stare out into space. I would like to write about the kind of love written in the Good Book, the second commandment, “love your neighbor as yourself.”