Aesthetics

I see a vivid vision of a young boy bathing in gratitude to
the spiky tiny drops of rain. Carefree as he never felt the darkness in
the rare momentum of bliss. The heavy clouds start to get angry in a
thunder and lightning but never did it cause fear to the overjoyed.
As if he has forgotten the warmth of sunshine, willing to give up those
happy days to just live in the crying of heavens. Oh, the unstoppable
don’t care. Then suddenly he went home, and there’s no other
rainy day that made him come back.

Every time it rains, I wait for him. In its pouring, a sudden
isolation of void comes darker than the clouds that trapped me as
if I’m a prisoner inside these four corners of my cold room. It is like
the feeling of nothing but at the same time it is everything. And only
the street light in front of the gate is the only source of clarity then.
I’ve never heard silence quite this loud. I stared into the not so clear
Polaroid posted in my wall while coated in a long-kept comforter,
wearing the crocheted sweater given by grandma.

The rain became more violent as the night went deep.
Country songs of the 90’s played in harmony with the heavy drops
of rain into the gutter. I sat while sipping the hot brew of coffee into
the windowpane as I anticipate the coming back of the happy kid
to tell him…“Oh my youth, you were never alone. The angels cry
with us when no one else does. Come back and make my rainy day
happy again.”