It rained, heavy, cold rain today.
It was the middle of the day, and the skies turned gray like it was evening. Then the furious pouring. It was an endless clatter, like running a bath that never fills. There’s no choice but to bathe in it, then your bones become brittle, then extra weight cannot be carried.
When it was done, I stepped out, in bare-foot and t-shirt, and walked beneath the obscured sun. The clouds were graphite threatening to fall. The buildings, stout and sturdy. They are designed to embrace the weight of storms.
The people of Shunderland are likewise. First, they endure, then they live. Rain gives life. It cleans the filthy. It muses the artists. It delights the children who splash in the puddles and shiver with laughter. Their chattering teeth is a language I still know.
After rain, the streets fill - because we must live. We must bathe in what we have drawn. We must be romantics and dreamers. We hang over steaming cups of coffee - Because Ideas must be born, sins forgiven, stories told.
Shunderland is not our land; it's our lives. It's where we shiver and chatter out the things that hide in the deepest parts of us, even the bones.
When the real evening comes, it will be no dryer, or warmer, and now I’m reminded that someday my bones will be brittle. It will have been the cold, cold rain. So, I must go out and cast away the heavier things.
Commentaires