withered, weathered

It came as a surprise when the first drop of rain to kiss my skin this year phenomenalized itself five hours ago.  It wasn’t a cold trickle but its effect lingered on me.  They came in tens after.  Hundreds.  Thousands.  Then countless.  Had I been in my red sports car,  I wouldn’t have mind how rain was affiliated with sadness or nostalgia.  Or the mud in my pants connected with vanity and hygiene.

But I have no red sports car, the one that I’ve been daydreaming about since forever.  So sadness, fuck me!

The news told me rainy days will come sooner than scheduled.  Nature always had a way not to kill her surprises, along with them, the songs you sang when you were younger.  Or the sudden fall of water that reminded you of chocolate gruel and the smell of heat from the barren soil where your family house once stood.  Or the paperboats you made with your brother, sailing through the limited creek, making their way towards a competition you didn’t know who grabeed the prize.

Then it occured to me that everybody wants to be a filmmaker or shall I say, anybody with a camera and a “killer concept” calls himself a filmmaker, thus everybody.  Surprise. 

Must be the rush for going thru the slippery pathway to avoid getting wet or the agonizing anticipation of meeting a stranger who was waiting impatiently for ten minutes, thinking that you might not show up.  There had to be a point in rushing and damn the odds, the stranger had to leave despite the rain.

The rain reflected the sorrow in my eyes then I saw myself melt with the crowd who had nothing to cover themselves.  The group of people who had to condense themselves under a narrow shed to protect their hair that took them five hours to fix or not wanting to mess the only set of clothes they have.

I was just like anyone, who dreamed of a sportscar or called himself a filmmaker during groggy times and was willing to get wet just to meet a faceless stranger over burger. 

Nothing came out of it. 

Just the rain, who loved to put on surprises and who stopped falling when you’ve finally dealt with its existence.  And me, with infinite cycle of angsts that never got its way out, especially at times when the un-cold trickles hit without a warning.

2 thoughts on “withered, weathered

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