It is raining outside. It is not in slick white sheets, the types that seem to fizzle out soon, at-least where I live. It is incessant and it is dis-passionate. The one with the resolve to keep on keeping on for days on end.
And I am listening to it as it falls heavily on the shade: a deadpan sound – no poetic rhythm to it.
There was time once, when I was like this rain. I was reticent but relentless. I would pen down my thoughts, put my jabber on screen. I wrote prose. I somehow put together poetry.
Coming back to the rain, it keeps on pouring, the wind hurls the droplets off their straight trajectory. Or is it their natural curve? Whatever it might be, to me they feel stateless – Undefined and irregular. They keep on hitting the ground with no recollection of the past.
Back in the day, I read up all there was to read about Zen Buddhism and I learnt the guitar. I grew my beard and more or less had two pairs of clothes. I wore them on alternate days. Fell in love, bid a goodbye and risked a heart-break.
All of this feels like a distant part of me though. As if I’ve far out-grown them. I don’t dis-regard these parts of me, but I don’t cling on to them either.
I’ve changed.
And I am falling.
The question is: Will you catch me before I hit the ground?
The Great Perhaps 