Rain storm

It is raining here in New York. I love rainstorms. They bring with the droplets of cold water unbearable feeling of nostalgia, the fresh scent of the trees outside despoliating the tableau of my memories, ridding it of the world weary verdigris covering the surfaces of what had once been. The Platonic geometric figurs of the rain drops falling in perfect vertical line to puddles of water, its ringing wave vibrating the strings of my mind, to stir the memories I've put away for so long, the talks and the acts and all the shadows between the thought and the action.

The melancholy tones of the gis is echoing in my ears. It had been more than a decade since I've first heard it, but it still remains there, and there is nothing that can clear that sound out of my mind. It had become a part of what I am. Of what kind of conscious construct this something writing here is. This something that dares to call itself myself.

I miss the abundant winds and the crashing of the sea of trees outside my window. I would sit upon the vast wooden floor of the living room with no decorations or furnishings, lie down and look outside the window into the gray sky. Occasional wind would shake an end of a tree to the periphery of my vision, and I would lie there perfectly still, enveloped in the deep aroma of the trees and the forests surrounding my home. No lights, no talking, only myself on the vast wooden floor. But it was something more than that. There was something behind the scene. Just as the mind cannot be retrieved from the liquids and proteins forming it, there was something within that snapshot of the world that could not be quite captured by simply listing what was there, where I was thinking of what.

The nature of what such a thing can be is quite lost on me. Such lack of understanding fills me with a fear that I might be losing my touch with humanity.