THIS MORNING brings more than the rain’s gloom. Thoughts and images waft in freely that I could draw them if I have pen and paper with me.
Maybe it’s just the early rain that muffles the city sounds a bit, the cramped space here at the back of the FX taxi, or the draft from the aircon, making me feel colder and more isolated. Whatever the reason, today seems like a perfect time to weave stories, even just inside my head.
I have always amused myself during long rides by observing my fellow passengers, making up stories about them and trying to put myself in their shoes. I guess this habit is a carry-over from my childhood days, when I passed the time manipulating paper dolls in make-believe life situations. Though I was often alone playing this game, I enjoyed imagining colorful plots and dialogues unfold.
It helps me forget how tiring it can be sitting for an hour in a cramped space. I get ideas for whatever I want to write. It’s one of the best cures for that annoying writer’s block, even if all the stories that come to me are just inside my head. Anyway, I can write them down later.
But instead of recycling others’ stories, I end up recycling my own. I start to see myself as a main figure in their own storylines.
In front of me is a woman who’s probably in her early forties. I could see my mother’s face in her worried countenance—a parent looking understandably anxious upon seeing her child who arrive home looking as if a thug had beaten the living daylights out of her. And the tall guy beside her, whose eyes never left the book for a second even during all the crazy lurches and twists of the vehicle. What if I was as diligent as he is? Then maybe I would be someone most think to be ideal—a whiz with all her class cards stamped with 1’s. My classmates would all think of me as a nerd who can supply all the correct answers for their assignments, which can be a nightmare. Being a doormat of the whole class is the last thing I want to be known for.
I glance outside where the rain seems to melt everything in sight, reducing the solid buildings and sidewalks to mere puddles. Like the steadily driving rain, I also try to melt my stories into mud—flowing now but dry tomorrow. Sheila Lynn Molarto
