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This is the blog of Ian Rosales Casocot. Filipino writer. Sometime academic. Former backpacker. Twink bait. Hamster lover.

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Sunday, February 22, 2004

It is the beginning of the last full week of February. And the humidity is spiteful, it murders. It hurts, the way we feel the festering colds and other heat-related illnesses growing beneath our noses and palates. The sun, everywhere—on my skin, in the molecules of the very air I breathe—is a demon in my head throbbing to be sated with more showers. I have taken about six cold showers today, getting out of the bathroom barely wiping myself dry with the towel, but going ahead and strutting naked around the room, rejoicing in the brief pleasure of cold water on my skin—and yet my body still remains one giant reservoir of thirst. The electric fan does not help, even when it is turned on full-blast it shakes the paintings on the walls. The walls, too, have soaked in the temperature. They are menacing, the concrete trapping the heat in, and I feel broiled. Sometimes it is easier to be outside, like tonight, where the slight, rare breeze occasionally cools. But nothing.



I wish my world is a Condura.



In recent memory, I don't remember a February that pleased the senses. March is gentler, where the summer is more dry. February is a distorted, fickle, and sad month, something I can do without. It just might as well that it has the shortest of days. This year, though, we get one day extra.



It is God’s way of playing a joke on us mortals.


[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich




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