Navigating the colossal revelry springing into its own beat on the banderitas-smothered streets, I could invariably love everything about it without any complaint. Despite the threatening overcast sky that haphazardly soon dropped buckets of rain, the difficulty of getting the best vantage point for somebody who wanted to be so-called photographer and thus sucked, the impossible thick human walls you couldn't penetrate and pass through, leaving you sort of impatiently stuck and nearly irate, the five-hour-long SRO, the growing heaps of rubbish everywhere and every minute, and the steaming air that unwittingly raised both eyebrows and cooked our balls, I had seriously nothing but a feeling of accomplishment and gratitude for being a part, yet again, of Sinulog.
I mean, there were some inconveniences. It was chaotic, of course, as it has always been. But when colors fly like a water wheel or a zoetrope, when the music starts its familiar insatiable rhythm, and when the singsong 'Pit Senor' drowns the crowd, all the world's inanities, caprices, and fatigues shelve themselves to shame. The simplest, yet most meaningful, word there is, is joy.
Sinulog is one of those few reminders for me to come to terms with my worsening faith and have it renewed. Thank you, Señor Santo Niño.
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