A Holiday From The Rain


It is raining now. I have entered my new house after a 3 years flight. The paperwork, documents, countless interviews, the hundred different ways I explained to others that I am a human and I deserve to live. It is over. It is raining. The war I left on the other side of the door is bound to get wet.

Humidity must be now up to the knees of the battles. The web led, bullets, steel, and iron is now melting like mascara on my country's eyes.

Now, it feels like an appropriate time for me to feel peace in front of the fireplace.

Now, it is only memories that I have to deal with. Tanks are now lying dead next to me like stray dogs I allowed to come into the house. Warm tanks, from inside of which soldiers come out. Getting closer to the fireplace as they laugh. Hanging their clothes on my toes to dry them.

On the corner of the house stand angry men, sharpening their knives as they look at me with anger and disgust. On the corner opposite them sit children covered in ashes, giving me looks to seek my help. The old pictures I hung on my wall, places I went to, people I talked to, and promises I made all stare at me, questioning how I had the nerves to call them my reason to fight.

I stare at all of that as I try to answer the simple question you sent me two hours ago.

"What's wrong?"

One of the soldiers climbs over to the phone I am holding, picks out each letter, and throws it to the soldiers below. The letters get thrown around as my thumbs fail to write new ones. Tossed around aimlessly until they hit the pictures on my wall, turning them into remains of dust that they are today.

It is raining now

The soldiers have now left, so did the men in the corning, and the children, taking the frames and my pictures with them. As for me, I am going searching all over the house for the letters they left behind. Trying my best to write you a response. All I found were a few letters, barely enough for one word.


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