In the torrid afternoons of summer, I sit by my window and think of the rain. I reckon it would feel like a lover’s hand on your cheek as you close your eyes and turn inward towards the hand, knowing this is as safe as you are ever going to feel. But there are no rains today, and that is life; if we were to get what we wanted instantly, it would take the joy away from it. To enjoy the cold respite of a shower was to wait for it. To relish in the unmeasured depth of love was in patience. There was no other way. The hand may come just yet, I tell myself, there is still time. It may rain just yet.
And what of the evenings with the winds blowing about? I reckon it’s the city growing impatient; it’s the collective, unfulfilled need to leave this state of languor. It’s not just the people; the Earth grows tired too. And yet, the rain does not fall. You believe it will rain as the dry leaves taxi over the gusts of wind and move about the city, as the birds struggle to maintain air and are forced to find shelter in balconies where children chase after them, pushing them back into the windy terrain, as people rush home as if the world is ending. And then, as everyone prepares for the sky to shower on us all, the clouds give way to the blues again, and blues they are; it is summer still.
It is not the absence of recess or a moment of peace that kills us; it is the hope that it may yet come, that it is on its way, that the rain may be here soon, that the love will be here soon, that is what slowly takes the life out of people, piece by piece, like shards of rock being mined from a tunnel. The tunnel does not know it is being stripped off the very reason they visit it. It was too dark for too long, thank you for coming. Yes, take all you want. It is alright; I am only glad you’re here. Then, one day, no guests arrive, and the tunnel is left darker still. The rocks that used to shine are not there anymore.
So, what must we do? We must learn to be; celebrate the mugginess, the aloneness, the darkness. To live was to live with what we were given and hope without clinging to it. It is the desperate clinging to hope that swindles everything out of everything.