Summer, part 2

Water.

Oh, to soak, to sink

in dreams
of you, to wade through you, or drown, perhaps, but gloriously. Because I cannot swim.

Stop struggling, they say. The tide will bear you to safety. I find it hard to believe, but it's not wholly impossible--nothing ever is. Some things are like water;

so pour me out.

These lines are figments--I am standing somewhere square.

Trickle down my throat, or wash over me.

Solid things wear me down; edges can be scathing. Hard surfaces, those bricks, that street. A rock and a wall, you say, and I, in between.

Let me flow, instead.

Billow, crest, and fall, and start again. And again, and again. There is rhythm in repetition, but beauty lies in swirls. Oh, let me swirl. I want to swirl with you. I want to swirl in you.

It's this darn heat.

"I wish I had a river", Joni once sang. I wish I were a river.

Tonight, the moon glows bright, illuminating the rivulets coursing through my mind, liquid pathways that lead to you.

The moon seldom ever insists its presence, but it always finds its way here. Like you do.

This page is full of abstractions, invisible streams gushing everywhere, taunting my delirious brain.

Will somebody please hand me a glass of water.

April

The days seem to have acquired an aimlessness to them. Perhaps, it's that standstill brought by the heat, that dry, dry mist in the air that paralyzes the mind into a stasis of some sort. The occasional wind, blowing at whim and frugally, too, doesn't prove much of a help.

The mind dreams of rain.

Rain, glorious rain.

For now, we watch our thoughts desiccate, crack into dust.

1st of April

The book I'm reading, even as it is remarkably written (and perhaps it is owing to this, too), hits too close to home and I find that I have to put it down, time and again.

I am more than halfway into it. I will finish in due time.


I guess the Holy Week does bring gray skies. Bright blue would be too much of an incongruity.

Last year, I wrote this. A little ashen, as it should be.