It rains again, slow but persistent, like a lover’s endless entreating. And I sit in front of a window where I had spent most of my young-adult days, gazing at the blueness of the sky, the aimless wanderings of the clouds, and day-dreaming that was only possible when one crossed teenage years and walked into uncertain manhood.
I watch rain again. Outside the window: the dark sky, the hum of life around me, and the graying concrete structures that have shrouded the memory of my days of yore. Do I day-dream anymore? Like the dark green algae on the ageing walls, it all lies buried. After years of wandering, changing places, exchanging cities, remembering and forgetting faces, I cannot recall what I had dreamt of once. Or is it the vagueness of the dream that moves us, compels us, propels us, and devours us?
I search for a rain poem. Is it in poetry that I still live my dreams? The elusive metaphors helping me relive the concrete life that I had once dreamt of? Here is what catches my attention. A few lines from Robert Creeley’s poem, ‘The Rain’:
‘Love, if you love me,
lie next to me.
Be for me, like rain,
the getting out
of the tiredness, the fatuousness, the semi-
lust of intentional indifference.
with a decent happiness.’
As I watch rain outside my window, insistent and persistent, I still long for ‘a decent happiness’.