From: India
About me: About me? Well.. Recluse, dysphoric, morose, inane, insane, caffeine-addict, misread, ascetic, platitudinal, dreamer, volatile, scathing, auspicate, deviant, disparate, iridescent, chatoyant, irate, morbid, colors, canvas, creation, hue, saturation, redemption, vehement, profound, intense, abysm, aphoristic, bound? Creative, encumbered, blasphemous, extant, sentient, opiate? Absurd, moronic, loony, preposterous, harebrained? Plastic blue conversations, paradoxes, anomalies, threnodies, acousmas, delusions, illusions, soliloquies?
Saturday, September 28, 2013,11:52 PM
First Rain
Maybe it is the silent thanks sent wafting up by the grateful soil, maybe it is the tiny, heavenly beads of prayer.
Maybe it is the thunder ringing in a hoarse chorus, maybe it is the strains of a few far-off violins softly fading in.
Maybe it is the suddenness of white flashes, or it is the unexpected switching on of lights foretelling eyes waking up to a dream.
Maybe it is the landscape washed anew in staccato flashes, maybe it is the rain reinventing the barren concrete.
Maybe it is the remembering or memories, visions that suddenly seem to dart around with the wind, larger than life.
Maybe it is my fingers spelling out your name in fluid letters or maybe it is the rain invoking you in indecipherable patterns.
Maybe it is the earthy fragrance of your presence or it is the earth remembering you in a hundred different aromas.
Maybe it is all this, or maybe it is my mind, which, as usual, is pining for you and is giving new names to longing.
Maybe it is a humble plastic bag, set swirling on the carousel of the wind, maybe it is a few glimpses of the gleaming road from amidst the patter of wet feet.
Maybe it is the roof slowly dripping into a glass of tea, sweetening it, diluting it and enhancing it in turns, maybe it is the crimson storm building in the kettle.
Maybe it is the smoke clinging to your fingertips, maybe it is the city wound in a grey cloud around your hands.
Maybe it is all of this, and more that makes me look at the terrace opposite mine.
The block is swathed in darkness and awash with light.
The rain is illuminating itself in white streaks.
When the lightning burns its way through my closed eyelids, in the aftermath of the flash, I see two people spinning in the rain.
I see their laughter, I taste it, I hear it flitting over windows, I hear it fly with carefree curtains, I hear it knocking on blind doors.
These mad, happy, crazy spirits... these silvery visions are both, memory and reality.
In that moment, they have forgotten themselves, the world, the rain, the wind, the terrace, gravity itself.
Only they exist,
And in them, you and I.
Maybe it is the silent thanks sent wafting up by the grateful soil, maybe it is the tiny, heavenly beads of prayer.
Maybe it is the thunder ringing in a hoarse chorus, maybe it is the strains of a few far-off violins softly fading in.
Maybe it is the suddenness of white flashes, or it is the unexpected switching on of lights foretelling eyes waking up to a dream.
Maybe it is the landscape washed anew in staccato flashes, maybe it is the rain reinventing the barren concrete.
Maybe it is the remembering or memories, visions that suddenly seem to dart around with the wind, larger than life.
Maybe it is my fingers spelling out your name in fluid letters or maybe it is the rain invoking you in indecipherable patterns.
Maybe it is the earthy fragrance of your presence or it is the earth remembering you in a hundred different aromas.
Maybe it is all this, or maybe it is my mind, which, as usual, is pining for you and is giving new names to longing.
Maybe it is a humble plastic bag, set swirling on the carousel of the wind, maybe it is a few glimpses of the gleaming road from amidst the patter of wet feet.
Maybe it is the roof slowly dripping into a glass of tea, sweetening it, diluting it and enhancing it in turns, maybe it is the crimson storm building in the kettle.
Maybe it is the smoke clinging to your fingertips, maybe it is the city wound in a grey cloud around your hands.
Maybe it is all of this, and more that makes me look at the terrace opposite mine.
The block is swathed in darkness and awash with light.
The rain is illuminating itself in white streaks.
When the lightning burns its way through my closed eyelids, in the aftermath of the flash, I see two people spinning in the rain.
I see their laughter, I taste it, I hear it flitting over windows, I hear it fly with carefree curtains, I hear it knocking on blind doors.
These mad, happy, crazy spirits... these silvery visions are both, memory and reality.
In that moment, they have forgotten themselves, the world, the rain, the wind, the terrace, gravity itself.
Only they exist,
And in them, you and I.
Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net