Once again, I'm living in a room on the roof; sort of. So when it rains, the three voices rise up, entwining, in a dancing melody, the wind, the rain on the glass and the rain on the tin roof. The small room becomes a rain hugged shell. The glass that stands between me and the rain, swims in the water and changes face, smiling. Far away, the same rythm beats on the sea skin, and digs holes in the sand. The sky swirls with patterns of grey, blue and pink. The winds sing cheerful, happy melodies, as it waves the sun goodbye.
"And far from flying high, in the clear blue skies,
I'm spiralling down, to the hole in the ground, where I hide."
Here now, with her, I revisit this old thought from june 2006 and it makes me want to laugh. Isnt it ironic?
Its been a swinging weekend. Its swung between sunshine, and rain, like the sky playing games and laughing at itself. I went downstairs earlier, and I watched as a bright yellow balloon, just a little deflated, danced round in circles with a bright blue plastic bag and a worm-hole-ridden grey-brown leaf; playing games in the small whirlpool the breeze made.
At other times it rained. And it was a quiet weekend. All the better to hear the rain. I had a large pile of work to be done, but the sky playing games distracted me. I spoke to her after ages. On messenger. Thank God for messenger. I discovered the funny feelings I'd been having since midweek were right! Strange. I'd heard twins have that: put one through a pinprick and the other one feels the pain, as well. Maybe its just DNA. Maybe its just habit. Its been so long. I put up a printed picture of us on my alarm clock. It must be the first ever: all 4 of us together. We all look so innocent and happy. That makes me smile.
What is it that life writes for us? Is there a destiny, in ink or pencil? Do we trace patterns, already drawn and fixed, tied forever to our paths? Os is there a way out? Because though it all dulls and dims, as time strenghthens immunities, and perfects masks, there's still the ennui.
And still we are stubbornly happy. Grinning in the face of life; Still standing tall, all of us; And sharing drinks, And midnight snacks, bartering insults and and soul deep cuts and late night nightmares and love stories; and I love you's; Still we go on living; and still we go on loving.
Some pictures and lessons stay engraved in your mind. Warnings. Ecstacies. Fears. Though we may not have lived them first hand. What I always remember is Thornbirds, 'the Gods are jeaous Meggie. dont love so much. dont be so happy'. And I live in fear of Their anger. I've had close calls enough.
Or are we just slaves to who we are, forever. Chained to the balls of our many loves and our many selves. All the ifs and if only's come and entwine at that one point. This was me. This is the life that I led. Would I have changed one second of it?
On a rainy Sunday afternoon, like today, I sit on my bed, with the patchwork quilt, with the rain drumming patterns on the window outside, I bring out the old tattered box again, of memories and broken bits and saved pieces and spare selves. Who will I be today? Next week? Next year? Which ones will I keep or throw away?
Originally Posted at Prerona.