We isolate ourselves of lowly thinking, just the narrowness of the situation. The sadness of the night now unwantedly thrives from an uncertain goodbye— then light of the world loses sight from the distraught awakening of December the fourth, from what the quarreling of the wind has inflicted upon me. Now, as we barely made it through the young night, I think of the wind. I remember how it woke me up in the middle of its own suffering — a shame I thought to be vulnerable in the restlessness of its tears. Now, after it left us hanging, not fully understanding what it wants to say, I think of the same wind that moved me to feel the feelings of an unnoticed helplessness. The sky, I thought, got tired of crying — it knows its frustrations will never bother us. We are the same frustrated people who thought to know better, but who also stopped in the stagnancy of lowly thinking, never bothering ourselves if we think less than what is expected of us. But what is expected of us really amid the dragging landscape of helplessness? I resolve to think again of the wind as I stare at the indignant provocations of the stars. They also resolve to accept a fixation on a singular problem until they each cease to exist – to fathom the essence of existence in the position where they’re in, in the quietness of the universe, vast and unconquerable. I’m jealous of the fact that however I try to transcend the boundaries of the stars, I begin to pity my limitations – in the vastness of the sky, the stars pose the threat of temporality, and here I am thinking of the wind again. I never thought it would struck me, never missing to remind me how minute my relevance is in the vastness of the open space. The world seems still but it is bigger now. My world never bothered to adjust but it seems to be smaller now. I am restless and my mind would more than restlessly, willingly disallow the conscience to let my body rest in the unfortunate makeshift beds that witnessed the wind cry and howl in agony. After the wind left us, the sky never cried again, and the stars positioned in the eeriness of silence. They seem to listen to the restless sleeping of those who are still able to breathe after the wake of the sorrows of the wind. They seem to watch my people as I also watch them tirelessly fight the worries that tomorrow would pose. I know my people could not be sinned for thinking indifferently, for focusing more on the narrowness of our situation now. I know that even if it is not only us who are impaired in this trying period, seeing how futile the future of the mountains, of the crop fields, of the thriving houses are, we think of our survival in our foremost pursuit to see the light of the next day. I know our makeshift beds knew this as this would be our common thoughts in the depth of the dreams of my people tonight. I, in the sea of people pressed to each other, still and quiet in their slumber, remain to ask the bewailing stars when will they make me join my people to escape a misery I know I will face again tomorrow. I am restless as knowing I’m still alive makes me more restless, sitting on the cold roads that will comfort me when I sleep tonight. For now, I can only cope with the solitary destiny of helplessness, watching the quiet stillness of the stars, thinking of the wind again. I know all of this will just pass, and we will live again.
For the victims of Typhoon Pablo