It rained this morning. It rained yesterday and the day before. I sat by the door peering out, distressed as my routine is at stake. For someone who’s bored by regimen, I’m desperately looking forward to something usual. The world seemed to be at a standstill except for the rain. My hands aren’t full but there’s restlessness inside me and this contant fidgeting makes me edgy. A strange feeling of warmth then took over, the warmth of a bonfire in mid December. I still remember those days: bland skies, cold winds, smoke and the stories we told taking turns. When I look at those faces, I don’t know them anymore. Not even myself.
I think we are the stories we tell ourselves; a little bit of fact, a whole lot of fiction to feel good and a wee bit of fantasy to escape from reality. You see yourself like the character from the book of your heart, and your narration, the reality (your reality). I’ve seen some monsters in my time, a visionary and a few jokers here and there. They’re all heroes in their fables. I am too, in my mind. At least.
August is nearing and it feels like winter has begun, except that it’s monsoon. It rains, sometimes for days (like today), sometimes not at all (like a few days ago) and there was a time I loved rain, not that I hate it now, I just said for the sake of it. This is how my mind wanders like a lost child.