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Saturday, January 31, 2015

Raksa's Rain?

I have been hard on myself since then. Seasonal wind came and went and, as days turned into nights and the cycle repeated itself, I didn’t remember, and still don’t, feeling either the heat, warmth or coldness the weather have brought along, or have changed. Not because I have regarded the weather as a trivial thing, but, maybe, my brain has been occupied and, for some weirdly good reasons, I don’t see it an advantage wasting my human emotions with the weather.

Not for today, yet! When the weather comes so harshly, to a degree that I couldn’t help ignore it. The sky has been rigid dark, absurdly, all days long since the morning—since my eyes caught sight of it. And not after a minute I have decided to cold-heartedly and effortfully drag myself out of bed and flopped into washing room, the rain, which fell boisterously last night, starts to pour once again. The washing room is a tiny downstairs, for-all room with a traditional set of shower, considered obsolete by some, a toilet tub, a half-watered bucket which had a water-cup floating on it, a shelf, under a mirror, filled with two toothbrushes (both are mine; I’d like to keep, for a personal reason, the old one there), a long toothpaste box which is thin at the tail and a piece of soap that was eroding days after days. Into the mirror, I saw myself: flesh that covers my body, my beardy face that is embedded with thin blacky shadow—well, if you look closely—and, I hate to mention this, many other things on my body; not to mention the black spot on my lower lip, which people whom I know intimately tease to be a sign of me being good at, amongst other things, talking and cursing, and that is so contradict to the reality in which a simple me doesn’t talk so much—at least since then.