05.26.2013 - 05.26.2013
The daily downpour has begun. A few warning pings on the corrugated metal roof and, just as you're wondering if you have enough time to get ready and slip out the door, the roar comes--so loud you must shout ridiculously to each other to be heard.
So we're stranded. Yesterday I was happy enough since I still had nearly a quarter of The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet to devour, but our afternoon of rest quickly ate those pages up, and now I've only a new book to read, which I always begin reluctantly.
[Thoughts of future and writing, which I've mercifully spared you.]
I could be having these thoughts anywhere. I wouldn't have to be in Indonesia, watching the lightning storm from the little slice of sky our window affords me. But it is not my obligation to always write of traveling, to go dreamy or poetic or defiant or awed as each situation allows. I'm a person who lives mostly in my head, and my head is thick with itself sometimes, as now.
The rain has dropped to a murmur. Our chance to leave?