It’s a rainy Sunday today and I’m up earlier than usual. Why is it when I don’t have to wake up by a certain time, I wake up anyway even without an alarm and am also as wide eyed as possible and completely awake. Come Monday this feeling changes. I’ll be hitting the snooze like several hundred times and I’d get up at the very last second of the point of no return. I stayed in bed as long as I could, pillow over my face to block out any hint of sunrise (it was around 4 a.m.) and was thinking of everything. I ruminated on my conversations of the past days and I analyzed to make sure I got things right.
It’s 4 a.m. and I want to fall asleep to the cleansing rain. I’m listening to the light tip tip tip sounds when the raindrops were hitting my window pane. I’m listening to the quiet between the rainfall and I can’t help wondering, what do I like more; the silence between the rain or the sounds of the rain itself. It’s so wonderful and I’m imagining myself somewhere in a magical mysterious land, where everything is so serene and peaceful and all I could hear is the gentle breeze and take in the grassy scenery and no humans in sight. The inbetween silence is growing wider and I think rain is dwindling away and it’s like this negative space I’m sliding into; the suburbia gives the illusion of a quiet suburbia when it cloaks itself with night but it screams itself into a city in the morning.
For the past few days it’s been super hot and humid and all of the city of Philadelphia clung to my body an inch thick and no matter how much I bathe, it won’t come off. Summer is fine if it’s like a day or two of heatwave; muggy days with insects singing away for their mates; muggy nights with fireflies lighting up the night with their sexy dances; I like hiking in the mountains. There’s something enchanting about the mountains. The dusty lonely paths, the scent of the leaves, mold and the hotness of sun on my cheeks. Or maybe it’s the morning dew and getting soaked in sunlight. And I detest beaches because of people. As Poirot puts it, people lie on the beach as slabs of meat. Plus, I’ve a condition called photodermatitis (allergic to sun) and it becomes acute with humidity and saltiness in the air.
I have an intelligent brain and heart, and I know what it means to live. Everything else has been a wonderful, indulgent embellishment. I have the deepest affection for intellectual conversations. The ability to just sit and talk philosophically, logically about things I care and cherish; life, love, death, kittens, anything or about everything. Little complexities of life which paint us with a palette of glorious colors. I was in love with a boy once; he played his piano for me. Told me to close my eyes when he played and to tell him what I felt or what color I saw. I lied to him as I didn’t see any colors lol. I spent wee hours of the second day of a new year, under the moon, with him, huddled in comforters, thinking I’ve all the time in the world, and everything around us slowed down, bound by no obligation, to speak without regret or fear of consequence. To talk for hours and about what’s really important in life. Later that year, I lost him to death.
I became mute. People around me think I’m shy and I want to shake them hard and tell them no I’m not. I’ve been silent for a long time but I’m full of everything and anything and I’m brimming over with so many things to say but I forgot how to say it. I have always been dependent on my loneliness & my sadness which became utter depression when he died. How hollow I felt ! Always just about six feet under the ground and feeling dead in my skin. And I kept thinking and relying on the seasons to tell me what to feel and I acted accordingly. I tried to be bubbly in spring, utterly naked with the falling of autumn leaves, and dutifully depressed during cold, grey winters.
I haven’t clicked my shoes three times and called out ‘there is no place like home’ but God has been good and everything turned out ok. I’m reviewing my past self, full of youth & naivete, and when I looked back at her, I still think she’s a stranger, immature. She looked like a photo of someone I once knew but am trying to remember.
In a few minutes I’ve to get out of my bed & get myself into the gym. It’s very easy for me to get lost into my solitude and in the labyrinths of my ribs. I like cuddling my soft godzilla kittens as a form of assurance. Cats are like the furry version of balls of sunshine to play with on a dank drizzly day like this. Well, Bonjour !