I remember going to bed last night while whining about the weather, and I woke up today in a city drowning in rain.
I‘m not someone who keeps up with televisions or newspapers, so the news of a cyclone heading this way came more as a surprise than anything. Because, although I do love rain in all its wet and muddy glory, a natural calamity is not something I’d ever wish for, no matter how bad and humid the weather feels.
But still, life must go on, so like a nice little boy, I grabbed my glasses and tried to go on with my day as best as I can.
There are mainly two things that attract me when it rains. One is a strong puff of smoke under the grey sky. It’s not a good habit, but well, sometimes a little self-indulgent is nice.
Another is a strong cup of coffee. Even if I argue that I am a tea person at best, I do find myself leaning toward this bitter madness every now and then. And when it rains, rest assured I'll be sipping on caffeine as I watch water race down my window panes. I’m just a man of habit it seems…
Lately, the urge of writing fiction has surrounded me. I know this has no relation to the rain or my secret love affair with coffee, but I’ll write about it anyway, as I write here only to dump my thought process.
Fiction was what I started my writing journey with, and even though it may sound like bragging, I do think I have somewhat of a knack for it. This urge basically comes around at this time of the year, when leaves turn orange and the sky is grey. Autumn may be the season when nature prepares to die, but even with death, comes something profoundly beautiful. To me, it’s the most beautiful time of the year. A peaceful, soft season that bares the truth of creation. Everything that is born must die, so that something else may get created.
“But when fall comes, kicking summer out on its treacherous ass as it always does one day sometime after the midpoint of September, it stays awhile like an old friend that you have missed. It settles in the way an old friend will settle into your favorite chair and take out his pipe and light it and then fill the afternoon with stories of places he has been and things he has done since last he saw you.”
― Stephen King, 'Salem's Lot
I too have waited for this friend of mine to come along. And as I finally watch him sit down beside me as the sky weeps in her sorrows, I know it’s time to pick up my pen again, and write out the adventures he has been to.
Maybe my words will be bland, maybe they will be meaningless and fragmented just like my thoughts. Maybe they will be consumed by a sadness that only comes in the form of orange leaves.
Still, id like to think they will hold a sense of autumn in them, when the taste of letting go is bitter, yet sweet; because you know in the end also lies the beginning.
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