The rain came down all of a sudden. It didn’t start with a drizzle—like it usually does—but instead was preceded by a roar, the sound of the rain beating down on the roof. It was raining so hard the transparent little drops turned white with rage and movement. If I blocked out the sound and replayed that scene in my mind in slow motion, it would look like a snowstorm.
I watched the raindrops cut jagged vertical lines down the length of the window. I loved seeing the lines travel down sporadically to finally converge into a thick pathway, then seeping into the rubber lining that connects the glass panel to the body of the vehicle. Rain is beautiful, especially the way they fall individually but finally come to rest in a puddle.
On melancholic mornings like this one, it touches me deeply when the rain falls passionately like this. The drone of the rain makes me think. I think of the events that have taken place in the recent months of my life. I think of how I am starting to question my self-worth, more so now that I’m approaching my thirties, and yet am so imbalanced when it comes to being ruled by my head and my heart.
As the bus I’m on turned up a hill, I looked down and past a rather steep slope of stylish private estates as the skies cleared and wondered if I would ever live in one of my own. Beyond the tiled roofs and rooftop gardens, I saw a great smokey cloud looming over the tiny squares of buildings below and felt it chill my heart.
Every time we fight, I die a little. But the masochistic aspect of my passionate self yearns for the sweet and tender touch of him after the painfully slow wasting away of my life. He is like an unwitting Midas; a tentative palm on the small of my back or a kiss on the softness of my body turns everything worthless into a treasured skip of the heartbeat. It’s been more than two years, perhaps almost three, but it still felt like that first innocent (perhaps?) kiss on my shoulder.
“Is he Cancerian?” her voice echoed in my ear. “No wonder. They’re talented, and it’s difficult to tear away from their passion. It’s that passion that we fall in love with.” I could only smile and nod. Should I frighten a newly-married, seven-week old mother who has just moved into her new home with the unsettling affairs of my heart?
quod me nutrit me destruit. What nourishes me destroys me.