On Closing The Door
Looking at the raindrops saturating on the edge of the window shed, I waited for them to close the distance between them. As they come closer, they meet and fall into the puddle of clear water underneath. Drenched in my observation, I was lying still when my roommate called from inside, "Close the door. It's raining outside."
This was before the realisation that I only sometimes have to keep the book on the table. If I place my head on the wood's edge and look down to keep the book on my thigh, it would be a surreal combination - like Parle-G with some Chai.
This was before the realisation that smiling at a stranger was more than its underlying shyness, for it was the moment of interest in two lives going insane. A moment of unexpected spark and a cognizant surprise. For it was a moment to bemuse and breathe.
This was the time before the realisation that my handwriting was not bad. It was, after all, just a different font. What I drew was sometimes good, for it had a piece of me that would stay and stay long.
Like the opposite magnetic poles, I noticed how the droplets came closer to each other—Only giving up once they met their significant other—putting on the weight together to finally surrender to gravity under. There's no remorse left, it is mission accomplished. I loved seeing their voyages and completely ignored my roommate's plea.
I let the door be open and sat in the dim rainy light of the evening. It allowed in the wet winds and sprinkled the water inside. The water touched me, like the droplets outside greeting their faithful spectator inside. And in that moment, I realised I need not control everything. And I let go…
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