The angry clouds threw raindrops upon the fragile tin roof with incessant and impatient sounds of ringing. They were in different tempo markings, but they were nothing musical. They simply added to the increasing difficulty in hearing the voices coming from the radio, if at all audible even without all the noise.
He tried his best to doze off. He kept his eyes shut. But the raging storm wouldn't let him. The raindrops sounded as though they were thousands of tiny fists banging against the roof, beckoning him, screaming nothing. It stirred up something in him. Of what it was he couldn't decipher. It was alien to him--or had he simply forgotten about it? But it made him stand up from what seemed an eternal pretend slumber. His back ached. His knees had almost given in, but he managed to keep his balance.
He stepped on empty packets of chips, walked past empty beer bottles and crumpled pieces of paper, picked up a stained face towel on top of a stack of newspaper and old magazines, and kicked away a few sticks of half-used cigarettes and unwashed plates and cups with left-overs being feasted upon by ants and cockroaches. But upon summoning what little energy was left within him to stretch his arms and pull close the window panes, he slipped on the floor and made a loud thudding noise as he fell on his back. He felt a pang of pain like never before, and attempted to let out a groan that came off as a whisper instead. He could feel the wet floor on the back of his legs and figured that the puddle was from the raindrops that got in through the window. He wondered how long it had been raining that harshly. He pulled himself up and closed the window panes. As he did, the glass looked as though buckets of water were being thrown at it. It's probably a super typhoon.
Slowly and painstakingly, he dragged himself into the bathroom. It stank of something rotten, but he couldn't care less. He was already too dizzy to care about anything more than the throbbing pain in his head and hips. He wanted to check whether his head was bleeding, although there was nothing much to be done if it ever was.
He looked at his reflection in the mirror, and was surprised that he didn't recognize himself at first. His mustache and beard had grown. There were dark bags under his eyes. He looked ten years older. But more than anything, he felt an overwhelming familiarity upon seeing the face he couldn't first recognize as his.
It was his dad's face.
His dad used to carry him around and show him off to his friends, boasting about how talented he was in sketching and painting just like him. Their most precious moments were always when they drew and painted together, while his mom prepared snacks for them. Sometimes they would even compete against each other and his mom served as the judge. And of course, as biased as a good mother will ever be, she always picked her son's work as the best. Those were the only times that he treasured in his life. Making all sorts of lines and shapes and adding color to enliven them were his sanctuary. Doing so always made him feel serene.
But all that ended and faded into the background when his parents passed away so early in his life. He was a teenager then. He tried to make do on his own, and as desperate as he was, he was able to get by way better than what anyone else could imagine of a lone lad. But he lacked both motivation and credentials. All he could do was work part-time jobs. In the end, he couldn't think of anything new and permanent. And nothing is constant in the world except change. And he couldn't keep up. And he quit. Now he was just as what everyone would expect of a lone lad.
If he could put it bluntly, he was basically waiting for Death to knock on his door.
Tears started flowing from his eyes down to his cheeks. He had no family. No degree. No way to get by. Nothing to live for. His body trembled, and his knees finally gave in. He dropped on the tiled floor of the bathroom and felt his chest tighten, wanting to let out a scream of agony louder than any thunder could be. But his voice cracked. And his tears wouldn't stop from flowing, like rushing flood water from an overflowing dam.
After what felt like hours of weeping, he heard a voice from the radio saying,
"So we close by quoting a saying from Meet the Robinsons, 'Keep Moving Forward'. Whatever happens..."
The line "keep moving forward" somehow got into him and brought him back to a memory of when he was young. He was looking out the window, feeling frustrated that the rain didn't seem to end. His father approached him, tapped his shoulder and said,
"Why is my boy looking so downcast today?"
"When will the rain stop, dad?"
His dad looked out the window and replied,
"Well, I can't tell. Sooner or later?"
"But I want to play outdoors."
His dad smiled and whispered to him,
"How about this: Let the rain do as it pleases while we pay it no attention?"
"How should we do that, dad?"
"Let's keep busy! Let's paint something good to show mommy. Then the rain
will stop in no time."
He smiled brightly and agreed to his dad. After getting busy with painting the best craft to show his mom, he never even realized that the rain had long stopped from pouring. He just had so much fun.
And all he did was paint.
Paint. Draw and paint.
Suddenly, a surge of energy welled up inside of him. He stood up, went out of the bathroom, and took a good look at his messed up room. He conjured in his mind the neat and well-lighted room that he used to share together with his parents. He decided that he would transform his room into that. Then, he started moving.
It took him so much time to transform his room into a decent one, but he didn't stop until it looked as good as new. It took him so much time, so much energy, but his strong will overpowered his exhaustion. But one part of the room caught his attention, and it kindled in him the urge to get a piece of paper and a pencil.
What he didn't yet know was that what he was drawing would later become his key to becoming a famous and well-respected painter.
It was his window--the sunshine breaking through his glass panes while there still remained a few droplets of water from the rain.