Weather Report (journal entry) [GL]

I can't sleep right now even though I feel secured with the door locked.

Somehow, I remember you and what we did in this room, on this bed. We were enveloped with a sloppily yet earnestly assembled mosquito net, nestled by a comforter turned into mattress then but now with a real foam underneath. I think it's still quite hard for my taste, and yours, but I can remember your willingness to adjust despite the discomfort, despite the meagerness of this house. I don't know if you were standing it just to please me, or if you were acting like it was okay when it wasn't, so as not to make me worry. But I saw your effort, and it was that effort of yours that made me admire you more at that time. At that time I could feel you can accept everything about me, including this unlit, dusty room, in this old, messy house of my grandmother, in a province a 7-hour trip from Manila.

It's cold this time indeed, compared to the last time we were here. I remember us using a blanket though, but not for the reason why I feel I will be needing one tonight. It was midyear then and the night was hot and yet perfect, with all those fears and memories shared; the tears, the caresses, the promises.

I remember the beach as if we went there in summer, and the smile you had the whole time. I remember the star fish and the little sand crab, although I can't remember its proper name. I remember the hearts and your foot and the footsteps in the sand. I remember how the sand ended up in the bed, and how messy they could be when they follow you around.

I think of you and I scold myself for remembering everything and not getting to sleep because of it. But maybe it's because of my usual 'pamamahay'; or because of crunchy noises I strongly guess made by a pipsqueak intruder; or maybe because of the pillow I find uncomfortable to use. But maybe, maybe it's because of you, after all. Because yours is the only memory I have in this room, on this bed, that is worth remembering at this moment.

So I decide to open the door, hoping the little intruder will find its way out, and for a beam of light to find its way inside. I don't know how long I can leave the door open (before my sense of security gets the best of me), but so far the noise hasn't resumed yet, and the room is now brighter to my comfort.

It isn't long when the thought comes that maybe I can sleep with this.

Maybe I can sleep better with this.

Maybe I can try, and this will be a new memory to remember by.

(Written: 11Jan2018, 9:53 PM)