Oh, How The Sky Changes Its Mind

For three nights in a row, I have stood and watched the rain. The city stands still in the face of the endless downpour, the ferocious lightning, the unencumbered winds, even animals have scurried and hidden themselves, and birds and bats caught in the middle of the chaos have floated helplessly across the blurry panorama of the torrential night sky. But I have stood, in the safety of this seventh-floor balcony, on grass that has felt real as the water has run through it. I have stood and watched and found great joy in this havoc ahead of me. Perhaps, it was the luxury of shelter; maybe, eventually, some of us begin looking forward to a storm. I do not know what it is, but I have enjoyed this cataclysmic shift from clear skies and golden afternoons to a blurry visage of the city caught under the rain. Three nights in a row, this has happened, and it has rejuvenated me, these words, and all my joy.

Just now, as I stretched back after writing the passage above, I leaned to open the balcony door. Like how children wait for the ice cream truck, I await the storm. Just now, a cloud rumbled ever-so-softly, and the ominous chill in the air settled inside this room. There is no more time to write. I must prepare my cup of chamomile before the power goes out, before the gale gets whipped, before everything ceases and bows in front of the wild tempest. It baffles me, my excitement for this. I do not know what to make of it. But if someone asked me what I remember from this year, I would say I remember the early summer rains. I would say I remember the cups of chamomile and how all of what the day stood for was washed up in the blink of an eye. Perhaps, it is the impermanence that has its hold on me. Or perhaps, it is something else I do not yet know. I have always been of a fickle mind, changing abruptly without notice, rhyme or reason.

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