There’s always that opening when you are woken up by something, and from there you build your pathetic narrative. Let this be another of my sad excuses for starting an expression—another helpless cliché. 

I woke up with a loud collision when my window banged the steel frame. That sound is nowhere to be found on John Bonham’s drums as he strikes the groove for  ‘When the levee breaks’—the sexiest kind of beat I've ever heard in this life that bangs the mother fucker inside of me. So no, that’s not the music that will turn you on but instead, the noise that will wake you up.

I approached the window and saw that it is raining gracefully with some strong gusts of wind right in front my face that is probably causing the water to fall diagonally to the ground and surely the reason for the splashing of the windows. As a creature of habit, which I am regretfully ashamed of, I opened my phone. I saw some notifications which I only skim and some messages I half-heartedly read not because I don’t care but because for that moment I just want to be numb and half-dead. There is a specific word for that in my Pangasinense vernacular, it’s a verb called “manpaimangmang”.  Seeing that I’ve been disturbed from my sleep, I just decided to go to my Spotify App and pressed shuffle and let music brighten up my mood. On the contrary though, Regina Spektor started whining about people and their very nature to not really laugh about jokes but to laugh about tragedy. “Oh tragedy!” That will be the exact words of my stomach if it could talk. I need to eat, I almost forgot I haven’t eaten since yesterday lunch, and now I am being punished. “Fuck!” That would be me. My initial reactions, when I remembered it is raining and I don’t have anything to cover me from.

Just a few paces away, I approached my roommate. I asked her if there is a typhoon or an impending one. Just a cold no. I asked her if she could lend me that something I am refusing to say which will cover me when I buy some breakfast, she just handed me the thing, in my head, “What’s with the weather and the people today.” As I ventured (yes, a venture, considering I’m four levels above ground) the stairway to breakfast, the thought suddenly seeps in like that nasty sucker punch when Floyd Mayweather jabbed his opponent who attempted a friendly hand toss before a match, “Fuck. There is no typhoon.” What of it? Well, June is fast approaching, and maybe, just maybe amidst the climate change and the unusual rhythm of our climate, the usual rainy seasons will come. And I still don’t have that steady thing to protect me from the rain which I am still refusing to blurt out.

As I opened the brown curvy canopy, that Scientists say to be the shape of the inside of a vagina, with a stick pierced in the middle over my head (What a dirty picturesque!), I looked up and saw the grieving atmosphere. It would be this time of the year, a year ago when you gave me that thing. You said it would be useful for the rainy season and when you come home to visit me in August. It indeed was. I still remember the warmth when we snuggle inside it. But to my hopeless carelessness I lost it. And now I’ve got nothing to hide myself from the tears of the sky, not even from my own, because I lost you too. And today the sky will bleed black, but for me not only for today will I bleed pink.