The wall is
curiously dry this time.
I wonder how
that happens. And then I realize it is my silhouette forming in a mournful cry
of neglect – as if the wall wanted to be loved by the stream and all I could do
was make it wait. Maybe for an eternity.
But just
then a single wet pathway graces the empty space, moving in a slothlike manner
as if it wants to enjoy the touch. Wants to remember what it feels like to
love. Soon it is joined by its compatriots.
Maybe love
does find a way. Or it might just be nature telling me that everything has a
natural discourse and I cannot prevent it no matter the depth of my scornful interference. Silly
little human! You will drown in the ravages of something bigger than you.
Something much more majestic than you could ever be.
I have
always wondered why I enjoyed showers more than other ways. It made no sense in
a logical manner – such wastage was being encouraged and for what?
Maybe cause
I wanted to be loved without asking for it. Maybe because I loved the rain and
it loved me back. I didn’t have to do much – just stand in its path and I would
get showered with a love so pure than it didn’t need me. It had me, drenched to
the core, a place no raincoat or umbrella could salvage. I didn’t want to be
dry.
I wanted to
drown.
I turn and
face the shower. My face is hit with its wonderful forceful waves. And I find
the lost touch in a dry kingdom – a thirst that wouldn’t be quenched with just
gulping some dreams away. The water wasn’t inside me. I wanted to be inside it,
made whole.
The playlist
continues. Familiar tunes as Chris Martin’s hopeful melodies give way to
Passenger’s nostalgic solitudes, and I feel my fists clench instinctively. I
close my eyes, and listen. Not to the tunes, but to the droplets clashing
against the floor plates, furious at the slight. I share in its righteous anger,
with a clarity that evades me in more happier moments where I am haunted by the cheerfulness of other people. Haunted by my own miseries of not belonging.
And as I
relish the waterfalls forming from my hair to my outstretched hand, I feel
connected to something greater. It's not a religious devotion so much as it's a necessary evolution. My eyes open and the music ends, but it doesn’t. Not really.
A playlist of
torrential torments is a welcome one for me.
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