Blues

A Story by AnnetteSafo

I like looking at the rain. Tiny shining drops, perfectly irregular, infinitely fresh, sparking like myriads of fakely natural diamonds.
Methodical melody, a march played by an enormous drum orchestra, that starts all of a sudden the very second the first drop reaches a rugged surface of an old grayish rooftop, and finishes only with the fainting tender sounds of humid leaves brushing against each other under a multicolour veil of a rainbow.
This murmuring symphony brings calmness and sleepiness, a lullaby to a tired mind, a magical ointment to a weary heart, a humble caress of the universe, that can't allow oneself to be more courageous and insisting.
Instead of counting sheep, you look at the raindrops chasing each other down the window (do you remember a childish game,- to bet on one of them that it would be the fastest and eagerly follow its way till it reaches the windowsill), you trace their wavy trails with a fingertip, from time to time feeling brisk shivers down the spine.
And an ephemeral surrealistic image appears, maybe a portrait, maybe a landscape, maybe a trace of a forgotten dream. A sort of meditation, or, probably, a prayer.
The feeling of stillness embraces you, a bit numbing, slightly troubling, mesmerisingly detaching,- you're suddenly stroken by the presence of solitude,- it's so close you could have touched it with the palm of your hand if only you could make a single move. You are alone. Solo. The one. The only one in the room, in the district, in town. The rest has been erased by the gray shower of rain. Nothing has survived. Just you, a thin barrier of glass, and devouring drops of water, descending in dancing turmoil from the torn skies. Seconds, minutes, hours...this stupor could have last an eternity, and beyond, dulling contemplation of colours on the outside turning from light and pale to more and more profound, eventually smudging the lines between various shades into one big black stain of nightish ink.
The ink that swallows the rests of rain, putting an end to your trans, to the magic of watery weather, your feeling of uniqueness and solitude, busting your diamondy shiny bubble. Time to switch on the lights, put a kettle on the gas for an evening cup of tea, take out the scones, and kiss the loved lips, a bit humid with the last raindrops that fell from the porch roof..