Today I remembered that the world is a difficult and improbable place. Rain falls heavily, drowning the sounds of rage and blanketing hurtful words in its capricious curtain of chaotic deluge. Rain consumes the steady hum of the engine, and swallows the smoke of exhaust in a whirlwind. Lights blink on the side of the road. You could see them if you had passed by at two past noon as a yellow blurry shape on your windshield, for the relentless rain was as a dam overflowing on the cars making their way along the roads which bring us together. The same roads my mother walked; the same roads we built ourselves upon over the last few years.
The rain almost silences your voice, all emotion and frantic as you wail into the telephone. The rain is as the tears spilling from your eyes – the eyes in which I see the world reflected as a difficult and improbable place. The eyes I do not like to, but cannot help but,look into.
Outside the cars swerve to avoid a yellow blur on the windshield. The rain stops abruptly, and you walk away.