Talking to one's self [Part 2]
The music had begun and the rain had started to fall down the desolated island of tears. You were there; hiding in the tiny nutshell you built all your life to protect you from all external forces. You were there crying yourself out in disgust as you hugged your pitiful form. You were there, where all the lights were darkened and where the cold breeze from the graveyard moaned. You were there and you were alone and you were singing your favorite song.
“My tears are as colorful as the rain”
The sky looked dimmer than the usual horizon you’d see everyday. Clearly, the gods mourned and their ugly tears swelled all over your haven. They spread like big splatters. Like thick red blood dropping unto your skin. Cold and captivating, almost like a blue version of hell. They were like crystal gems of fate, and each one revealed a little portion of you. The rain, you thought, was as hideous as sin. It should be banned from the world. But then again, who were you to decide such things? And so, you hugged yourself a little tighter and you continued to sing your favorite song.
(Does anyone see me cry?)
Drip. Drop. They were like… and at that time, you got lost in your own thoughts so you stopped composing your poem. They were like… and again, you wandered between the world of reality and your make-up fantasies. They were like… and you couldn’t think of any god damn word to relate to the god damn plight.
And you asked yourself, why should I even need to compare the rain to a metaphoric object? When in the end, it still remained as the rain. Nothing more. They were simply tiny droplets of water scientifically dropping from the sky because of condensation (or was it precipitation?) And you poked yourself for being stupid all this time because you didn’t even remember the lesson which was taught to you every single year of your youthful life.
But then again, humans were all so fond of making symbolic meanings to things. And the person you called unique was one of them. You yourself were making a comparison which was at that time was as important as your life itself. You were, after all, like them. Just a replica of everybody else. You were never different.
And so, you laid yourself down and you sang your favorite song.
“Pour without cease.”
You were all wet but you didn’t mind it. You wanted to kill yourself in the rain of the thirteenth monsoon. You wanted to kill yourself at that moment, and bathe in your sweet blood as it swam under the blue of the rain. You wanted to kill yourself at that second, so you could fly to the ethereal haven of your moon. You wanted to kill yourself, and kiss the sole flower of the rain. And kiss it. And kiss it.
You wanted to die in the rawness of the rain. Oh how you’d love it.
“If I sing in the rain…”
(song lines from Ameni Utaeba)
“My tears are as colorful as the rain”
The sky looked dimmer than the usual horizon you’d see everyday. Clearly, the gods mourned and their ugly tears swelled all over your haven. They spread like big splatters. Like thick red blood dropping unto your skin. Cold and captivating, almost like a blue version of hell. They were like crystal gems of fate, and each one revealed a little portion of you. The rain, you thought, was as hideous as sin. It should be banned from the world. But then again, who were you to decide such things? And so, you hugged yourself a little tighter and you continued to sing your favorite song.
(Does anyone see me cry?)
Drip. Drop. They were like… and at that time, you got lost in your own thoughts so you stopped composing your poem. They were like… and again, you wandered between the world of reality and your make-up fantasies. They were like… and you couldn’t think of any god damn word to relate to the god damn plight.
And you asked yourself, why should I even need to compare the rain to a metaphoric object? When in the end, it still remained as the rain. Nothing more. They were simply tiny droplets of water scientifically dropping from the sky because of condensation (or was it precipitation?) And you poked yourself for being stupid all this time because you didn’t even remember the lesson which was taught to you every single year of your youthful life.
But then again, humans were all so fond of making symbolic meanings to things. And the person you called unique was one of them. You yourself were making a comparison which was at that time was as important as your life itself. You were, after all, like them. Just a replica of everybody else. You were never different.
And so, you laid yourself down and you sang your favorite song.
“Pour without cease.”
You were all wet but you didn’t mind it. You wanted to kill yourself in the rain of the thirteenth monsoon. You wanted to kill yourself at that moment, and bathe in your sweet blood as it swam under the blue of the rain. You wanted to kill yourself at that second, so you could fly to the ethereal haven of your moon. You wanted to kill yourself, and kiss the sole flower of the rain. And kiss it. And kiss it.
You wanted to die in the rawness of the rain. Oh how you’d love it.
“If I sing in the rain…”
(song lines from Ameni Utaeba)