Layers and layers of wind ruffle across my face as I smell dry earth through the window of my apartment. It feels like the lovers who come strong, kiss strong and leave briskly before you realize their presence. It all feels same–different layers of wind–but I can tell the difference. Just like you can differentiate the love you receive from different people in different seasons. One that is fragile, other one that is slightly needy, but is still love whatsoever.
I can tell, the raindrops are already midair. I can smell them, and want (and not want at the same time) for them to splash. You know, I have a love-hate kind of a relationship with rain. I’ll explain that a little later.
I stretch my hand outside the window, like a child who loves rain or a person who is loved, to catch a few drops. I’m neither. Maybe I’m trying to decipher if I’m worthy enough if the first few drops of rain find its way to my palm. You can say it’s similar to witnessing a shooting asteroid and feeling blessed. I know it’s mindless, but I’m trying to calculate the odds for this to happen, eagerly waiting with my hand stretched out the window as sky rumbles louder, and the cracking sound of lightning cast a glittering message on pitch-dark sky in its own language. My heart is shaking, already knowing it won’t happen, knowing I’m not good enough, yet I want to know whether it’s that I’m worthy-and-wrong or I’m unworthy-and-right.
A few more minutes pass with rumbling and thunderbolt, but no rain. I wait a little longer. For rain. For luck. For love. Then as if the clouds have heard the beating of my fragile chest, I sense the ruffling of raindrops in the air a bit louder, but there is nothing on my palm yet. My mouth gets dry on my own thoughts. I want to be sensible and pull back my hand, but I still wait, bullying myself saying I’m a loser.
A familiar ache in my throat rises when a few raindrops hit tree-leaves underneath. I hear a loud thud in my chest. Falling apart, I slowly pull back my hand thinking that even if I walk out in the pouring rain, I might still return home dry. It makes me teary, and just when the first tears are about to dribble, a splash of rain hits my face.
I don’t know what it means, but with my heart full, I lay on the floor drenched in foolishness.