There are dogs in the sky and their barking has begun. Splat, splattering – water is splitting into smaller rounds as it splats. It stains the branches and buildings with a moistened, darker shade of whatever colour they were before. My mind is waning; the dogs are slowly fading and cease to accompany the splatting.
I grabbed my pen and keyboard keys when I first heard the dogs, but now I don’t bother to stick my ears out of the window. The rain has passed as quickly as it broke in -to my head. A passage about rain is not easy when the metaphors usually associated with it are boring. Yet this is about rain and water – and splats and some common writer’s struggle.
My eyes dart between a charcoal keyboard and dripping trees outside the window . Back and forth I look, making this experience a report. Should I have waited, gone to get wet and then put fingers to keys? Should I have fed the dogs my full attention?
It all seems pointless now, there are no splats or even spits to be heard. I have written about rain, and that too barely. Maybe writing keeps me by the wayside to watch life pass by and— no that’s not the metaphor I’m going for.
I assume I should continue writing for it’s at least drizzling. But why talk about the experiences of a visiting husband; one who appears as fast as he disappears. Was he ever there? There are no crimson marks on my inner thoughts to serve as proof. What difference does it make to the rain? Why write at all?
And now comes a sickness washing over me, as I hear the dogs return.
With a vengeance, their hungry barks demanded wetness. It takes a moment and a giggle to realise my gross underestimation about the rain and the word. Lesser are the feelings to enjoy one over the other. Here I am, converted to optimism and watching raindrops splat harder, fast but with grace. Here I go writing even after this fullstop.
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