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.  

As the rain threw its falls to the earth, some of its drops were fragmenting themselves—or were fragmented by the blizzard-y wind—to hit hard the zinc roof of the room, making one of the most annoying—yeah, annoying—sounds in the world. Hurriedly, my hand stopped pushing the brush to work and, to the memory that I had left the window open, I sneaked out back to my upstairs room, as if the house was on fire—though it’s under the reek and attack of the harsh gale and downpour. “What the heck!” I thought to myself, my mouth still full—half—of the white bubble the toothpaste had produced, and the wind had, for a while, shivered my above body, which was bare, after it mercilessly flashed through.

As I ascended up to my room and kicked the door open, the sight of the window shot right into my eyes. The window, which was dust-filled, was still there on the wall and properly shut. “Poor my memory,” my inner thought exclaimed a boisterousness to my brain—which was, for this silly rush, shameful. Admittedly, I’m getting old. Ashamed at myself, I rushed back—slowly this time and still coping with the annoying sound that the rains had beeped—to the room to wash up my mouth and clean up my body. The coldness had already made its ways to my inside, which, despite its numbing coldness, I didn’t really seem to care. I decided then that a wash in the morning like such was, though necessary, unwanted and not properly suitable. Not in such cold weather, my internal self firmly ruled out.

After finishing myself with the bathroom (or the bathroom with myself), I hopped back into the house. After I handled open the door and landed some steps in, I hauled myself into the kitchen and tried to make myself a breakfast—I am not good at that, and dislike it. I grabbed a pot, which is black outside, likely by the heat it had been exposed to, and filled it with water and put it on a stove and heated it to boil it. Guess my breakfast? A packaged noodle and a cup of coffee for today (normally, I made myself iced coffee milk but since today the rain showed no mercy—you know what I want to tell; you may ask but no answer is guaranteed).

As I made myself breakfast and, then, was eating it, my thought whirled for Chilly, a loveable dog and my genuine companion for these 14 years, who was still sleeping under the old shabby wooden bed in the kitchen. “You might have to wait for the brunch or lunch, Chill.” I murmured to myself and to his outside self that seemed so innocent, trying not to be loud as the loyal friend was still swimming in a good sleep despite the annoying sound the rain was—had been—in progress. 

Finishing my breakfast, as part of the habit which I picked years ago, I cleaned up everything and ascended back to the room and grabbed a book to do the morning read—a habit I started years ago—actually several months after she left.

Shit…..Did she just barge in? Damn, wistful thoughts that was so frag…ile! Finally, you, so weak, succumb!

I have tried to not mention her by wandering around my descriptions in this entry. Finally, I hit a point of her again. She, who is already gone, never ceases to stop coming back to me, at least every time I write—though I have always tried to suppress the thought (of her) to be calm. To be honest with you, in my previous books, I inserted some bits of her into one of the characters. She is just too strong to be completely gone, and I’m just, though I have moved on, so dramatic about this long-gone love.   

In this entry of this diary, I should’ve described and scribbled more about what’s going on today with my life; like, I walked Chilly to the nearby market which was damp today and got us some food, I lunched alone with Chilly and stuffs. Yet, half way, she—Raksa—comes back and somehow my mind went numb after some times defending against her picture.

And, you know, what is so special about today? Why, on earth, have I mentioned the weather, to which I don’t normally give any attentions, in this entry?  That, you know, was because the weather—the pulsating and poignant rain—brought me back the idea of Raksa and the love she and I used to have and bear (you do know the use of “used to”, right?). All those dramas are back again in my head and every time they flicker and vibrate, I hate myself for another moment and, finally, find sorrow.

The first day I asked her out fifteen years ago, it rained and it helped me to get me her heart and love which, later, went somehow smoothly and saw mutual efforts to keep it breathing well. At specific time a few years and some months later—back to those fifteen years ago—as we grew and I was more fonder (double comparative and I mean it) of this love and her, the exact day she’s telling me she was to marry another guy after stories of complications which involved her parents, her future, her happiness, and me and my career choice as a writer, it was raining too. On the day she was getting married with her better guy suggested by her parents, then surrounded by her applauding relatives and friends, it was raining again—physically and hard in my heart. And, the very day I mind-cuttingly decided to—after having living through hell at the agonizing fact that she’d chosen to go on with her life, for her family and her future, without me and not keeping her promise for me—start to find myself back again, let her go wholly and thrust every bits of that love into the thin air of a summer five years ago, it was raining too. And, today, as I am planning to finish up the plots of my third book, in which I have also inserted a bit of her into one of the characters, it is raining again. It’s the no different things for the previous two books. I remember it rained the day I had scheduled to get the books respectively to the publishing house to discuss with my publisher, and I got stuck in a feel-tensioned traffic jam, which left the manuscripts and me wet and I having to call my publisher afterwards to apologize, reason myself and re-schedule the meeting.

Worse, as I’m jotting down this entry, Alan Jackson’s Remember When is on tuning as a random playlist of English songs had been playing to accompany writing up this entry.

Is this coincidental or something? Every time, she just comes back and live in my head, even if I have made sure with myself long ago—five years ago—that she’s gone and my life shall be better without her too. She has sought for a future and, the same is for me. I’ve became what her family—and she, later—once reprimanded me of and I have proved them wrong—this is not a revenge or something; don’t get me wrong. She just comes back some times. Sometimes, it’s joyful to see her smiles in spite of the pain and motivation to fulfill my dreams that she has left. I’m not blaming her yet in all. A good life lesson, though! And, if you might have noticed, I’ve switched tense of the verbs in this entry. Gotta tell you, I rarely do that as a writer, and if I do I know full well when to use which tense. But, this one is different. I, admittedly, get confused which tense of verbs I am using. Good thing, though it feels unfamiliar, is I’ve managed to finish this entry.

I'll end this piece with an infograph and a quote—which I read somewhere long ago and so far don’t seem to digest its meaning.

“Sometimes you love something so much that it hurts to leave it, but you must. Sometimes it hurts too much to hold on to that thing you love. And sometimes you let go of what you love because it hurts, but then just sometimes... you get it back and live happily ever after.”

Truth is—and I have to face it—Raksa is a person and I will never get her back. That’s okay!

End of entry. I have a book to finish—reading and writing! But, are those Raksa's rain?

PS. In case you're doubting, I don’t co-lyric Sam Smith’s I’m Not the Only One.

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