Unexpectedness

Last night, as I was working on the computer, the French doors leading up to the roof were thrown open by the wind. I started. It was a strong one, coming suddenly upon the night, and at once, I realized I could hear the trees very clearly. The storm hadn't arrived, so I went outside, up to the roof where everything seemed bathed in a pale red glow. I could see the huge cloud covering nearly the entire sky, and the silhouettes of trees around me moving about like frenzied shadow puppets. I watched a cyclist hurry home. I let the wind ruffle my skirt, let it chill my skin, and I shivered for the first time in a long while. When was the last time I could say I shivered in Singapore?

I stood there for a long time, thrilling in the anticipation of rain, feeling alone yet connected to all that surrounded me. I thought about many things, and didn't know how long it was before I went back inside. Finally the rain shattered the wind's presence, and thrummed loudly against my windows. I pushed open one and leaned out a little, letting a fine layer or rain cover my face. The wind swept across my skin, and I found it soothing, renewing. Along the road, a young man and woman straggled towards their houses, without umbrellas or raincoats. Across the street, a neighbor smoked a cigarette, then pulled out a large blue umbrella and walked towards the gate. Perhaps he was going for a walk in the storm, something I wanted to do but couldn't, because I had work.

By the time I went to bed, the rain had ceased and the air had preserved the coolness left by the rain. Settling in for the night, I read a few pages of Carlos Ruiz Zafón's The Shadow of the Wind and then fell asleep.

This morning, I woke to a threatening gray sky and the familiar sound of a strong wind. My heart leapt.

I began to work again. Today it was housekeeping in the rooms and hallways of my computer. I dug up old files, trying to decide which to delete. "Quotes," said one, and I opened it up. Song titles, proverbs, passages from beloved novels, and then this -

"Books anchor me each day, or, to switch analogies, they suspend me in a protective sac from the world. Good music - a melancholic song, a vibrant symphony - lasts a few minutes. A home-cooked meal - brimming with color and the scent of spices, olives, and mint leaves - takes me through an evening, and is especially great when shared with friends. Books though, books are journeys, some longer than others; or telescopes that let me see galaxies, strange worlds, their grandeur or terrible beauty; or the misshapen fields of my life, some sitting in the sun, others tucked in twilight; and I could gaze for hours, days, weeks."

It was attributed to no one. The lines seemed new and familiar at once. Who had written them? And then I remembered. The writer was me. They came from a time I hadn't recalled in a while. I'd written them and then left them to linger forgotten in a file I hadn't opened in years. Reading the lines again, I felt soothed, renewed.

Posted by Monoceros at June 11, 2008 9:32 AM