My Monsoons
They came today. The Monsoons.
Unfailing.
Every year, they come. They disappoint no one.
I woke up to the sound of water. Clashing.
To the sound of a dancer in red, whirling. The art of abandon. Like streaks of colour pressing in and out of a tapestry of baby raindrops.
My last monsoon. Before life changes.
The wind, like a strand of hair moving of its own accord, twirls around the rain. God’s fingers. Wafts of water, spray a blood-red beetle. A spot of red. A shiny little sequin off the dancer’s dress. The beetle.
Something in me dances.
Rain. That brings back my grandfather. That places my childhood on my lap. That makes me young again. Im old in the heart. They are anti-ageing, these monsoons.
Standing. Pressed to the cold, hard handle of the door. Watching. As the God of Eternity, takes the shape of the monsoons. To talk to me. And I stand. And we talk. We live. Eternity, who wants to exist. I, who don’t. In each other we find the scales that balance “forever” with the “now. I live in this moment, this monsoon. The monsoon lives through me. Together, we create immortality.
Wild. The rain. Wild and nostalgic. A gypsy with hair blackened by the shadows of the sun, sits alone in the desert. An eagle takes off from its perch, and on the wings of longing, flies across the sun. The dancer, red and wet, with rain clinging to her hands, her feet, her arms, her breasts, whirls around in wild, mad, uncontrolled circles. A seven year old street boy runs. Wild rain. Free. And freeing those who are not.
I hug myself. I laugh. The monsoons, they ARE me. Passion is a drug. Not because it’s addictive. But because it’s good. Very good.
My monsoons. My red.
Unfailing.
Every year, they come. They disappoint no one.
I woke up to the sound of water. Clashing.
To the sound of a dancer in red, whirling. The art of abandon. Like streaks of colour pressing in and out of a tapestry of baby raindrops.
My last monsoon. Before life changes.
The wind, like a strand of hair moving of its own accord, twirls around the rain. God’s fingers. Wafts of water, spray a blood-red beetle. A spot of red. A shiny little sequin off the dancer’s dress. The beetle.
Something in me dances.
Rain. That brings back my grandfather. That places my childhood on my lap. That makes me young again. Im old in the heart. They are anti-ageing, these monsoons.
Standing. Pressed to the cold, hard handle of the door. Watching. As the God of Eternity, takes the shape of the monsoons. To talk to me. And I stand. And we talk. We live. Eternity, who wants to exist. I, who don’t. In each other we find the scales that balance “forever” with the “now. I live in this moment, this monsoon. The monsoon lives through me. Together, we create immortality.
Wild. The rain. Wild and nostalgic. A gypsy with hair blackened by the shadows of the sun, sits alone in the desert. An eagle takes off from its perch, and on the wings of longing, flies across the sun. The dancer, red and wet, with rain clinging to her hands, her feet, her arms, her breasts, whirls around in wild, mad, uncontrolled circles. A seven year old street boy runs. Wild rain. Free. And freeing those who are not.
I hug myself. I laugh. The monsoons, they ARE me. Passion is a drug. Not because it’s addictive. But because it’s good. Very good.
My monsoons. My red.
posted by Shekure Darashikoh at 9:34 AM
1 Comments:
have you ever felt the raindrops fall on your cheeks and felt as if angels were kissing you?
have you ever danced and danced and got wet and never cared? have you ever felt like a dervish twirl in the monsoon could cleanse all your sins and fulfill the purpose of your mortal existance?
have you ever stopped and looked at the raindrops against the glass and realised how useless and misdirected every struggle that we undertake is?
have you ever realised that when it rains, you are not the only one who cries...?
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