For some, the rain falls too fast to be soothing. I’m fine, so long as there is no thunder. I sit beside the window, and I wait for my ears to fill with that soft, but incessant nocturne of raindrops clinking across our metallic world.
The rain falls steadily. I find that the thrumming sound escaping from its silvery curtains is not unlike the sound a hummingbird’s wings make when it crafts flight from thin air. Watching the rain try desperately to coax some saturation back into the manmade world, I find myself wondering: Are we all so desperate to live, as to beat our wings faster than our hearts can ultimately survive?
I immediately hear my father’s voice go off in my head, berating me. “You ask such useless questions! Make yourself useful, and go find work.” My father was a metal-worker, and the rust of everyday life lay thick on both his body and his beliefs. He had the soul of a champion, but the body of a corpse. I never learned how to speak to such a man. Even in my dreams, when I stand before him, I am silent, mute.
On days like these, where absence molds presence, and not the other way around, the rain-wrought haze bleeds up into a rust-colored sky. I know what that sky is made of. It’s tragically comprised of the melting souls of ghosts, for we have all left someone behind. There are no strangers in the rain.
Opening my mouth, I can taste on my tongue the lost confessions left behind by the twice-dying ghosts. It tastes like the sea. Through the turquoise haze all around me, my father’s voice rises up, all shattered and mosaic-like, and I remember that as he left the house years ago, he’d kept murmuring under his breath: She drowned. She drowned. She drowned.
As always, my father was right. My sister did drown, and of her own volition. By then, my father’s bones had rusted well over, and though he’d reached for her, she had already gone. And where had I been? Honestly, I don’t remember. I can’t even remember if I was born by then. Was she my older sister, or my younger sister? I can’t recall. Was she my twin sister, or was she me? At this point, does it matter? All things are equal before the rain.
No longer caring about the dignity of the world’s axis or of my own exhausted spine, which at this point are the same, for all I have in this world (or any world) is myself, I succumbed to the feeling of laziness before a rain-veiled world. I laid my head down on the windowsill and gazed outside. Losing myself to this blurred world, where all things are indistinguishable in their melancholic shapes, I found myself praying to the blue angels: Give me something softer. Give me something the light can catch for a little bit longer than this quick, thrumming thing called life.
The rain falls steadily. I find that the thrumming sound escaping from its silvery curtains is not unlike the sound a hummingbird’s wings make when it crafts flight from thin air. Watching the rain try desperately to coax some saturation back into the manmade world, I find myself wondering: Are we all so desperate to live, as to beat our wings faster than our hearts can ultimately survive?
I immediately hear my father’s voice go off in my head, berating me. “You ask such useless questions! Make yourself useful, and go find work.” My father was a metal-worker, and the rust of everyday life lay thick on both his body and his beliefs. He had the soul of a champion, but the body of a corpse. I never learned how to speak to such a man. Even in my dreams, when I stand before him, I am silent, mute.
On days like these, where absence molds presence, and not the other way around, the rain-wrought haze bleeds up into a rust-colored sky. I know what that sky is made of. It’s tragically comprised of the melting souls of ghosts, for we have all left someone behind. There are no strangers in the rain.
Opening my mouth, I can taste on my tongue the lost confessions left behind by the twice-dying ghosts. It tastes like the sea. Through the turquoise haze all around me, my father’s voice rises up, all shattered and mosaic-like, and I remember that as he left the house years ago, he’d kept murmuring under his breath: She drowned. She drowned. She drowned.
As always, my father was right. My sister did drown, and of her own volition. By then, my father’s bones had rusted well over, and though he’d reached for her, she had already gone. And where had I been? Honestly, I don’t remember. I can’t even remember if I was born by then. Was she my older sister, or my younger sister? I can’t recall. Was she my twin sister, or was she me? At this point, does it matter? All things are equal before the rain.
No longer caring about the dignity of the world’s axis or of my own exhausted spine, which at this point are the same, for all I have in this world (or any world) is myself, I succumbed to the feeling of laziness before a rain-veiled world. I laid my head down on the windowsill and gazed outside. Losing myself to this blurred world, where all things are indistinguishable in their melancholic shapes, I found myself praying to the blue angels: Give me something softer. Give me something the light can catch for a little bit longer than this quick, thrumming thing called life.
