Monday, 9 November 2009

Under the rain

Little shiny balls of rain are falling down. They are very warm and they are flying from sky towards earth surface with such a passion... as if they got a mission. A message to deliver.
I am walking towards the bus stop, which as according to my memory is supposed to be somewhere there, 500 meters away.
I wonder what that message would be? "Don't be afraid" or "Don't run away and go back" or maybe "Be strong".

It's quite late, 3 am. Not sure there will be a bus. Oh, yes, there should be. My memory reminds me that this bus is 24 hours. It's good news. However the decision is to be made, and I know my bloody heart that it can change its decision before the bus takes me away.

As if geographical distance means more than emotional distance. How f**ing weird, but it does. "Away" is the only word that is not from here. It's from somewhere there - far away. And how many people can break that word?

Here and Away are only two words that matter. That doesn't matter if you're away, somewhere deep in my heart you're here. Here and Away don't have so much of a difference now, do they?
Right now at 3 am rushing somewhere I kind of wish you can come and save me from all the troubles. And you will tell me and my sisters a great story about little dwarfs sitting on the clouds and gathering little girls' tears. Then they make rain from these tears. So the more we, little girls cry - the more rain there is. Me and my sisters will believe you, for there is no way not to believe.

It's enough to believe and wait for someone who will just appear in the silver needles of rain and save me. That's not silver needles that hurt, that's my memory that is slowly waking up and reminding me that three years ago this very day, you died. People die, that's a kind of a journey end. Especially if they are 76. Especially if they're grandparents. Nothing to be crying about?

And I am not, who said I am? That's all rain drops on my face. And I am not running away from anything, just went for a walk under the warm rain. Here in this real world you are dead. But in my dreams you are always alive and lively. And you keep telling me something. Like a message. I just can't catch it. My memory is failing me again.

I wonder why it is raining? Why people cry over someone who is already dead? They are rarely crying over those whom they hated. They mostly cry about those who they loved. So these tears are warmed up with love, just like this rain is.

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