More ramblings and the cold November rain

A season that is cold and wet, never completely free of the dampness of the tears that are brought on by the world’s misery. Like sorrow to hang on your wall. You look out through the under-side of an umbrella, water dripping off the edges. A pair of faded jeans, always wet near the ankles. Standing in a puddle, perception tinted by the yellow light of the dim street light . The old grieving sky goes on calling to its sun again. And when darkness falls and thickens, I go to bed at midnight, after having penned down 20 solid lines about the dead squirrel on the road. The sign of a good day, a positive omen in life; the cause for nausea in death. Whoever said this was a rational world?

The musty smell of a closed room, unoccupied for a while now. I see again the feeble light at the end of the hall, the one that you were never able to fall asleep without. I have been living in grey and white, in half-tones and undertones. Like a calendar in one color. It seems to be one of those days that feel like a memory relived too many times, the chewed up toy of a dog, swelling up in your throat. Deliberately provoking that strange pleasure you call melancholy. How many times – having shut yourself away to weep in the dark, beside a stream, under the covers, to make yourself sadder. Hardwired to process emotion before cognition. You thought dreams were a false perspective. The territory of the scandalous, the absolutely ridiculous. An artificial stage filled with people dead and alive.

This morning, you awake to the small applause of rain, somewhere between dusk and dawn, and a dream that stays.

 

I had heard somewhere that nothing lasts forever, not even this cold November rain.