Enchanted… That may very well have been the state I was in last Monday, as I looked down on Manila from the tower on which I stood. Below me, lights from Roxas Boulevard, Makati, and the nearby airport were winking and swaying, as if a young dancer in the midst of a slow and seductive tango that leaves one feeling ethereal and suspended in time. The lights hypnotized me and seemed to speak to me in hushed and tender tones: “Shhh… shhh… It’s okay… relax… relaaaaax…” I felt weightless, ageless, and worry-free.
The stars above seemed to be speaking the same language, as Taurus, Orion, and The Pleiades—the only constellations I could recognize then—winked at me and shushed me to sit down. “It’s a beautiful night,” they seemed to murmur, “what are you standing up in three-inch heels for? Sit down and enjoy the view, for crying out loud!”

So sit down I did.

Moments like this are rare in this bustling metropolis of several million people, where my days consist of slaving over a PC with my back hunched and my eyes almost kissing a 14-inch monitor, or communing with dirt, sweat, and tricycle belch as I commute my way around to clients who don’t even pay on time. My life is a frenzied one; if there isn’t a deadline to beat, there’s always someone to meet. Oh, and let’s not forget the staple stressors of the credit card company that demands payment now, the niece who wants to play outside no matter how warm the weather is, and the sibling or friend who runs to you with a heavy burden to unload.

Thank God for rooftops.

It wasn’t even my rooftop to begin with, and it wasn’t my calamansi and rum concoction, either. But it was this sense of borrowed time, borrowed space… borrowed comfort drink that made the moment even more… transcendent. I didn’t buy this moment; I didn’t demand for it; and maybe I didn’t even deserve it. But it was given to me by some unknown force so I could silence the critics, the editors, and the slavedrivers in my head… and really just listen… Listen to the faraway hustle and bustle of cars on Roxas Boulevard, to the slow slapping of the waves (there were few, anyway) on neighboring Manila Bay, to the hushed conversation of Paul, Iggy, and Lisa beside me, and to my soul, this mad, restless spirit that always wants so much of itself.

My soul is the greatest slavedriver of all, and I’m glad the lights and the stars shushed it a bit to give me a few hours of peace.

Yes! Up on that rooftop by Manila Bay, I felt peace and serenity for the first time in many, many months. Borrowed serenity on a borrowed rooftop.

It amazes me how it seems to take so much for us to escape our daily grind and find refuge in a familiar and comfortable place. This building-with-the-rooftop has become my second home, and yet I hardly visited the rooftop, the terraces, or the swimming pool below for some quality time with myself. The same goes for my room at home; I have surrounded it with my favorite books, photos, magazines, and candles… and yet I never sit still in it long enough to enjoy my prized possessions.
It always takes an almost-extreme situation for us to really value the things that are just right there beside us. Why is that?

In this wild, wired world, why can’t people sit still and not be accused of being indolent, unproductive, or foolish? Why must we always be standing up and moving about?

Of course, you all know that this question is directed most of all to myself, the only person to blame for this frenetic lifestyle that I have been submerged in. It is I who keep the time, I who crack the whip, I who push myself to the limits of insanity, and I who have no choice but to face the floodwaters every time the dam of my soul breaks.

I thank God for Monday evenings on rooftops—with glasses of calamansi juice and rum to soothe the soul. I thank Him for the lights and stars that lend wonder and serenity to these rare occasions. Most of all, I thank Him for the company of friends and loved ones, without who this moment would have just been another cold night spent in solitude and silence.