It’s a slow, sticky summer,

6 May 2008

and the fruit flies have come out dancing on our wooden kitchentop. I go out everyday to look for some new airconditioned place and set up bookstand, reviewer, highlighter, and pray to goodness I get through my hundred pages or so for the day. I know I should be studying constantly, voraciously, with eye of the tiger running through my head but the outdoors is filled with swimming pools of happy splashing high pitched-shrieky children and lanky pre-teens who look twenty-one and order grilled ham and cheese sandwiches in string bikinis. Inside the library everybody’s so still. I end up watching the clouds form continents in the sky. Lightning storms occur almost every afternoon. I see them through the windows muted by distance and the aircon hum. Sometimes they are followed by quick angry stormbursts and then it’s hot all over again. This afternoon I walked by one of the rooms in school which was being remodeled, resulting to two favorite smells commingling to headiness: the smell of rain and rugby. Or, the smell of grass and soil disturbed by the rain, and headpounding rugby vapors. Rain and rugby. And if only it was rugby, the sport, and I was running, running breathless instead, under the rain, splashed with mud, every muscle a screaming fiber lusting for victory. But I’m not, although my brain will be (screaming for victory… or just plain screaming). One of these days I’ve got to get myself a proper battle theme.


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