Raindrops and Blue Skies.

September 18, 2006 § 1 Comment

Every time it rains, I feel a little more alive and a little less human all at once.

I gather raindrops like a child gathers candy and an old woman her skirts; in sheer wonder and in careful consideration. They leave me sighing whenever I chance upon these silver slivers slicing the air in clean lines of promising sensation. These microcosmic sensations only raindrops can inspire along my skin. A treasure of pearls and diamonds at the tips of my eyelashes, shining with a luminous beauty even if not their own. Rain is a complete inspiration of desperate happiness to me!

Each raindrop, whether gently slipping across my palm or slashing away in untamable fury, fascinates me to no end. The rain softly caresses ones’ head and flows like a loving melody down ones’ body, when on its April sojourns. Then there is that melancholic pitter- patter of monsoon rain, a long drawn tragedy not unlike a lost cause taking lonely steps, down a forsaken path. I feel drenched to my nerve on such days. I listen to the rain as if it is the only sound I can understand as it speaks its incessant monologue on my window sill. But I remain in awe of the terrific rage of a sudden summer down pour, the angst of a mad man lost in the intensity of one single emotion. To fall like rain and leave nothing behind in one’s wake. To tear through the nothingness in a tormented fall from such heights to such depths. The rain… oh, how it falls!

I was wandering in the rain
Mask of life, feelin insane
Swift and sudden fall from grace
Sunny days seem far away

Everytime I throw my head back to a blue sky, I die a little and smile a little all at once.

I know I’m just an organism, living on a bunch of closely packed atoms, reacting through sensations to a chemical compound. How can this be the euphoria in me when it rains down? Along those lines, how is a monosyllable like ‘sky’ supposed to bear the weight of something so profoundly infinite. Such dreams and stories as a sky so blue can awaken as a willing imagination might surrender to aspire towards. And one other monosyllable makes it must describe something beyond beautiful.

Blue skies have to be the expression of a Godly premise. There is no other explanation for the change in hues and the effects on a mind turned to the skies. If a place of possibility exists it must be in the width of a sky so blue. The azure hue of an evening sky soothes my restless heart and then on other days it fires my mind enough to sing in triumph. Those pale blue skies seem as watered down as the paltry trudge that life sometimes resembles. And those deep fathomless night skies surround me in entirety, engulfing the smallness of life in its expansive consistent black- blue. So many poems sprung from the vision of a night sky checkered by a moon and its celestial family. Intense and moving is a blue sky as a muse. A moody blue in Van Gogh’s Starry Night and then; a haunting blue in the strings of Mark Knopfler’s guitar. Simple expressions of complex pain all wrapped in one syllable. The possibility and exaltation of a dream in two… a blue sky!

Did you ever wonder why we had to run for shelter,
When the promise of a brave new world,
Unfurled beneath a clear blue sky?
Did you, did you see the frightened ones?
The flames are all long gone,
But the pain lingers on.

All these throbbing wounds and frissons of pleasure wrapped in one human existence. Blacks and whites with myriad color in between, all in resonance with sensations. In what light can one give up on life and its pointless struggles? Just the sheer redundancy of life is comical enough to chase the cause in earnest jest. And then, to remember that this too will pass, blue skies and rain et al.

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§ One Response to Raindrops and Blue Skies.

  • pmohu says:

    ..not actually a comment.. but a extension…What can a sky do when the sun had dried it up and the blue sky woulndt search for water elsewhere other than a sole pond to replenish itself automatically. The sky perhaps felt it was drying up the pond as the pond failed to spring water to the surface from the abundant sources available underneath. The pond somehow thought that the sky would know.But the sky was in quench of water and readily wanted it. The sky was lost in search of water it acquired over the <>surface<> of a lovely pond and now started believing that <>it<>,it had exhausted its only source, that the source refused to resurface. What could the Sky do when it raised questions to <>itself<> like <><>Why?<><> It turned blue…

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