After days of scorching sun comes down the first summer rain. I stand under an overcast sky, trying to strike a chord as the droplets lick down my face. However, despite the wind flapping at my shirt, despite the water that trickles down my body and the lush greenery that my environs contain, I’m unstirred. Something weightless, perhaps emptiness itself, fills my insides. It’s a feeling of utter vacancy that ticks within and renders everything colorless without. It’s the feeling that has accompanied on many, long days when it pushed me into re-fractoriness and recluse. I’ve tried thwarting it like I have in the past, but it has transformed. It’s not overwhelming any longer – it comes like a subtle stupor, drawing slowly over my conscience. And I fail, entirely, to put it away. I no longer find the energy to do anything. Words, themselves, evade me. For months we’ve shared a bond but it is starting to falter – they’re disintegrating into the thin air and I am helpless. I desperately try to cling on to them, to retain their treasured company but they turn into memories – mere memories of bygone days, the exaltation of yesterdays. No more do I have the elation of writing them; no more do they come to me like a heavenly touch, giving the utter pleasure. Their meaningfulness has ceased and they exist over the dust-misted pages like broken promises of the past.
And this is excruciating. When I try to pour myself onto the papyrus and it looks back at me with its ghastly pallor, devoid, it gives me these pangs of agony. And the pain only gets acuter with each passing day. Today, though, the rain seems to have diminished it just a little, with its gentle touch which has stirred me somehow, somewhat – not that it didn’t bring along the painful nostalgia. Still, as I write this down, I feel some contentment deep down within me, at having taking arrested a few moments away from the permanent respite.