(no subject)
I’m only happy when it rains
Soundtrack of the Day:
You wanna hear about my new obsession?
I'm riding high upon a deep depression
Current Temperature: This is how I imagine the first Easter Sunday. So much to wash away.
The water being blown by my office’s large window panes like thick sheets of wax paper seem like a warning of a harsh winter. A precursor to more trying times, it tells the story of repentance for an Indian summer not cherished. The extra weeks gifted to us by nature went neglected for hours at the office, for days of unexplained depression, and for nights of blurry lights flashing through a drunken shout telling me to wake the heck up.
I don’t think the rain has stopped in about 48 hours. I think it was Tuesday night when it started. I remember walking home borrowing my coworker’s umbrella. I had absentmindedly left mine at home despite the clear reminder I left for myself the night before, by hanging my umbrella on my closet doorknob. So much for that. Since then I don’t think the rain ever stopped.
At night, when I’ve turned off all the lights and television, and even my music, I stare at the ceiling waiting for the pounding to begin. It starts off with soft raps on the surface of my window air conditioner. Through the crack in my window, safeguarded by a prison-like gate that leads to the fire escape, I can hear the wind grow and sometimes howl. I can hear it swirl, fighting its way between the four buildings that encase the back yard. And I wait. I can’t be fooled by the old rain being shoved from the trees. It’s only after the wind has found its way out that I can hear the real rain as it pounds the foliage in the overgrown flower pots, and ravages the metal steps that lead to the ground, the steps that I’ve never touched, forever protected by that unnatural gate.
When the rain has maintained its rhythm, I close my eyes and listen to its song. I breathe the cool air seeping through the crack in my window. On nights like that I lay my head at the foot of my bed, so I can breathe the rain, so I can cool the burning in my gut and in my overstuffed head. So I can start over.
Soundtrack of the Day:
You wanna hear about my new obsession?
I'm riding high upon a deep depression
Current Temperature: This is how I imagine the first Easter Sunday. So much to wash away.
The water being blown by my office’s large window panes like thick sheets of wax paper seem like a warning of a harsh winter. A precursor to more trying times, it tells the story of repentance for an Indian summer not cherished. The extra weeks gifted to us by nature went neglected for hours at the office, for days of unexplained depression, and for nights of blurry lights flashing through a drunken shout telling me to wake the heck up.
I don’t think the rain has stopped in about 48 hours. I think it was Tuesday night when it started. I remember walking home borrowing my coworker’s umbrella. I had absentmindedly left mine at home despite the clear reminder I left for myself the night before, by hanging my umbrella on my closet doorknob. So much for that. Since then I don’t think the rain ever stopped.
At night, when I’ve turned off all the lights and television, and even my music, I stare at the ceiling waiting for the pounding to begin. It starts off with soft raps on the surface of my window air conditioner. Through the crack in my window, safeguarded by a prison-like gate that leads to the fire escape, I can hear the wind grow and sometimes howl. I can hear it swirl, fighting its way between the four buildings that encase the back yard. And I wait. I can’t be fooled by the old rain being shoved from the trees. It’s only after the wind has found its way out that I can hear the real rain as it pounds the foliage in the overgrown flower pots, and ravages the metal steps that lead to the ground, the steps that I’ve never touched, forever protected by that unnatural gate.
When the rain has maintained its rhythm, I close my eyes and listen to its song. I breathe the cool air seeping through the crack in my window. On nights like that I lay my head at the foot of my bed, so I can breathe the rain, so I can cool the burning in my gut and in my overstuffed head. So I can start over.