Back to writing this week. Been so lag for the past weeks because maybe rains would literally just make you uninspired if you don't feel like to become melancholic.
I planned the night before to walk at CCLEX New Road. At 5 a.m., I stepped out of the house, convinced the darkness was only because it was early. I didn’t notice the heavy clouds resting above the sky. I thought it was just dawn taking its time.
Three kilometers into my walk, the wind began to change. It pushed against me in quiet warning. Slowly, the sky lightened—not with sunrise glow, but with thick gray clouds. That was when I realized how unprepared I was. No umbrella. Not even a cap. Just faith in a clear morning.
A drizzle began to fall, light but steady. I walked toward the police tent stationed near the Lapu-Lapu–Cordova bridge, hoping to wait it out. The officer offered the mono block chair. For about thirty minutes, I seat there with others seeking shelter. The rain softened to a thin mist, and I decided to continue. Thank the officer for the chair.
People passed by—some running through the rain, others walking with soaked shirts clinging to their backs. I kept going, telling myself this was still part of the plan. Then the sky opened again. The rain poured heavily, and I rushed toward a small snack stop by the roadside with a wide umbrella stretched over plastic tables. A few people were sipping hot coffee, their cups steaming in the cold wind. I felt chilled, my clothes damp, but strangely, I didn’t regret coming. It was just a different morning here in New Road, Cordova—a scene unlike my usual bright walks.
I stayed seated for a while on a green plastic chair, my shoes damp from the wet pavement. The air was cool against my skin. There is something about Sundays and rain that invites stillness. For the past weeks, I felt behind—lagging, uninspired, as if the weather had quietly borrowed my energy. The sound of rain can be comforting, but it can also pull you inward, tempting you to stay in that quiet melancholy.
After another half hour, when the rain softened once more, I headed to the wet market. Inside, it was busy and slick with rainwater. I saw fresh shrimp and live tahong still tightly closed in their shells. I bought just enough for breakfast.
When the rain grew heavy again, I rode a jeepney home, carrying my small bag of fresh seafood. I stop below the footbridge to shelter from heavy pouring. From where I stood, sheltered between two concrete posts, I watched the world slow down. A lone tricycle passed by, its headlights glowing warmly against the dim sky. The wires above tangled like restless thoughts, and the puddles gathered quietly at the roadside. Rain has a way of pausing everything. It makes the city softer, almost distant.
Back in the kitchen, I cooked tahong soup and fried the little shrimp with egg—warm, simple comfort after a cold, unexpected morning. Prepared something warm. Crispy shrimp fritters, golden and slightly imperfect, paired with a bowl of clear soup filled with mussels and leafy greens. Steam rose gently from the bowl, carrying the scent of ginger and broth. It felt nourishing, like a small act of care. Outside was gray and heavy; inside was warm and grounding.
A rainy reset, unplanned yet complete.
Maybe the rain isn’t here to steal inspiration. Maybe it is here to rinse away the heaviness of the past weeks. To slow me down just enough to notice things again—the shine of wet streets, the comfort of simple food, the quiet promise of starting over.
This Sunday, I choose to begin again.
Photos are mine | Captured with Vivo 1901.
