Bookmark #520

Halfway through September, I opened the curtains to find the hills covered with whipped cream clouds, and the day looked like a delectable snack waiting to be devoured. But as is with all snacks, a cup of coffee was due first. Once I spent a moment staring at the cobalt hills surrounded by the bluest sky, engulfed in clouds, I began the day. This was the first day that seemed a little normal since I had arrived back into my life. There is always a period of adjustment in all things. No matter how familiar something feels, you must fit yourself back into it. It made me think of how when you had come back and said Hello, I immediately jumped back from where you had left me.

Now that I know better, I should have taken some time. Like an old jacket you dust off as autumn comes into the picture, I should have worn your presence gradually. But you see, it rains here in September, and it carries over till October. It rains here till people are tired of the rain. And so there is rarely an opportunity to dust jackets off. Here, we do not get winter like it is handed to places where it snows, where you can see winter arriving slowly and setting where the glass meets the windowsill. We only get a brief respite from the rains, and then they begin again. As much as it was the better thing to do, even with all that I know now, I would have worn your love—or scraps thereof—quickly, desperately, with an inexplicable urgency. It always rains here, and sometimes, it gets too cold.

But then, when it rains, especially when you are safe and sound and warm, and it continues to rain through the night, the mornings are always spectacular. The mountains and the hills always find a new visage, despite never moving an inch, and waking up is always a joy. That is how my life has felt for the better part of the year. It is the morning after the rain, over and over again.

There is no other way I would want to live. There is no other way I would have wanted things to go. I believe, in the end, when all is said and done, and when enough time passes, even a closed door is a gift, even if it always rains in the city where nothing ever happens, even if we are drenched from time to time.

// if you want to support this walk to nowhere, you can pitch in here