|Night view from the room, which was my abode for almost an year. Zurich, Switzerland|
The premise is simple. To put it mildly or to put it honestly? I could never decide. Not then. Not now. I can try, but it would be impossible to define what I have or what I had once in a single essence. If I can define exactly everything how or what I feel, then may be I am not feeling enough. I always liked riddles. It was about time, I turned into one myself. Even if my shadow betrays me in the dark, a fact would accompany me till the end. I miss your presence.
I could live without the sunshine all this time, but I did not want to miss the first rain since words abandoned us at the same time. You always loved the clouds. ‘They are like jewels, orange, white, grey, black adorning the infinite blue’, you said. When you left, the jewels left too. And I see them again today, after what feels like an eternity. With a few drops from your eyes, that was the last I saw of rain. Until now. I came out, because I could smell the rain in the air. There were few scraps of sin and pride hiding somewhere. In the corners, where I couldn’t reach, the pearly drops of rain would wash them away.
And there was the breeze. Every touch of the fierce wind on my face left an image in my eyes. The breeze which blew brought with it the memories, from the other side of the horizon. Your face, as fresh as ever, not separated by distance, but by time. And the same words – My patience was my crime. When you had closed your eyes to protect it from the blazing sun, I stole a harmless kiss from them (in my mind). And when you leaned in closer to hear my whisper, you left a gentle wish on my lips.
I recreated the memories over and over again. And since, the rain has come today, may be, my penance has completed. Or is it waiting for my final act? A confession to the rain. That I meant everything I did not say. That I felt everything that I denied. That I hid everything that I should have revealed. That…
My rough hands tightly hold the promise of a dying whisper. Protecting it from everything. But today, I am opening my hands. Slowly. The fingers have grown into each other. It takes an enormous effort, but it opens. Like the petals of a lotus. And, when a butterfly escapes my palms, fluttering its wings and singing in the rain, I know, you have found happiness. The color of the wings is those of the clouds – white, grey, black and a shade of orange. I stay in the rain. And by staying at the same place for so long, I walk farther than most.
Off suffocating nights and scorching days,
Off blinding lights and piercing rays,
In the Rain, I am alive today. But,
Yes, I have died in numerous ways.
- HAUSLE BULAND
P.S - Work of Fiction.