The dripping roof,
Has always been a point of fascination for me, be it the cover of a building vehicle, whatever or the top of the inside of a tunnel cave or even the top of the inside of the mouth. This time I was studying the roof of the house, the corner damp, revealing a abstract pattern of dark soot like moisture algae. I am totally convinced that “If your thoughts are as tall as the height of your ceiling, you can’t fly above your room.”
If we were to actually dissect this roof our house is not our real roof, the walls of our house are not our real walls, our fists are not our real fists! Our real roof, our real wall, our real fist, our real shield is our right thinking that protects us from every danger.
in awe I watched the moon ride across the zenith of the heavens, like an ambered chariot towards the ebony void of infinite space where in the tethered belts of Jupiter and mars hung for ever festooned in their orbital majesty, just as I looked at this I thought… this is it, I loved the patterning of rains, the damp breeze and sleeping in the open courtyard with warm woollen blankets after drinking a glass of warm milk with ginger, pepper and turmeric added to it.
I went to bed and woke up in the middle of the night thinking I heard someone cry, thinking I myself was weeping I felt my face and it was dry. Then I looked sat the edge of the roof, it was the first drop of rain, tearing through the clouds, screaming as it did, for all this effort it had to head towards the drain, so I looked up and caught it in my eye instead. It was just the rain, the rain, always the rain, and turned over. Sadder still and fumbled about for my dripping sleep and tried to slip it back on.
There was something very interesting about the water dripping right down the edge of the tiled roof, like it cascaded as tiny rivulets down the uniformly placed Mangalore tiled roofs. I remember sitting on Grandpa’s easy chair watching the raindrops run their kamikaze suicide missions from one tile edge to the next.
Today as I observe the raindrop from one edge to the other, I think the edge must be where sanity and insanity come together, for a while then go their separate ways, maybe like leaves on October trees, that colour the world but for a moment, then leave. At the edge where life loses its edginess and as they hope to become one someday. at the edge the sun drops, the ring falls and senses of raindrops climb upwards to the gray sky.
As I contemplate, the rain fluctuates between drizzle and torrential rains. A friend of mine said, the rain messes with your mind. it makes you think things will always be like this, never getting better, always letting you down right when you thought the worst was over.
But I like it when it rains har. It sounds like white noise everywhere, which is like silence but not empty. The richness of the rain makes me feel safe and protected. I always considered the rain to be healing, a blanket, the comfort of a friend with at least some rain on any given day or at least a cloud or two on the horizon, I feel overwhelmed by the information of the sunlight and year for the vital muffling gift of falling water.
To me Rain is a lullaby heard through a thick isolating blanket of clouds. It is the tinkling harp of water droplets a moist breath of whistling through the willow reeds, a pattering beat background to the mourners melody. Rain is a soft son of compassion for the broken hearted. The rain also makes me less alone. All rain, is a cloud falling apart and pouring its shattered pieces down on top of us. it makes me feel good to know I’m not the only thing that falls apart, it makes me feel better to know to know other things in nature can shatter.