The rain falls against the window, creating a sound that resembles that of a crackling campfire. The droplets stain the glass, and streak down below. The weather has been relentless recently, but it’s a soothing release and it usually helps me sleep, even if today I am sat up against my wall staring out my window. The presence of the rain makes it seem like I am not alone right now. Someone else is awake with me, someone else is here near me.
My digital clock runs blank, as in the middle of the storm the power seemingly went out. It’s the weekend, so it could be anywhere from 2 in the morning to 4 or 5, I don’t even know. The ambiguity is intriguing, without a measure of time I feel as if I am in a different area. Away from everything but then getting sad over my loneliness as I attempt to bond with raindrops.
God I am a mess, but I assume that’s to be expected. The angsts of the teenage years seem to be a shared experience even if the reasonings are different. The angsts then transforms into stress and worries and problems of adulthood and “the real world” but the emotions stay the same.
I don’t want to see the real world, if this so-called prologue seems to be purgatory. But how bad could it really be, problems adapt with age but so does everything else. I will be older and smarter later in life, so I will be better equipped to handle my more difficult problems. The same way I will be more equipped to handle my midlife crisis, because I am already going through one at the age of 17. What would that be then, an almost 1/5 crisis? Sure, that works. If my almost 1/5 crisis is so bad, then by the time I have my midlife crisis (if some calamity doesn’t strike first) I wonder just what that will feel like. I shouldn’t think about it, sometimes a single night dredges to feel like a thousand, why should I worry about so many years.
Thinking is good though; I was never a fan of those who shunned the act of overthinking. Not for futile acts of course, but just thinking about myself and the world around me. Who am I, why am I, what comes next, am I special or different. Or my all-time favorite question to bombard my head with. The one asking if there is any point or reasoning to doing this. Not merit, of course there is merit the pleasures of life (no matter how scarce) prove that alone. I mean is there any genuine meaning, something that makes my existence on this planet to be something that should be there. Something that was meant to be, something that needs to be.
And you know I have searched for meaning so long, that I have found meaning in my search and thus became successful even with no concrete answers. As long as I scour and scavenge, as long as I delve and dive to try and undercover the beauty and meaning of this life, then there is an infinite amount of beauty and meaning. Even if it is a gilded search for a non-existent treasure, the struggle to find the treasure is fulfilling enough.
Maybe that is why I believe in God, maybe the idea of God is enough. The feeling of guidance through life, the relieved acknowledgment that your death shall lead you to a better place after. It doesn’t matter if he exists or not, if I die believing he does. Not like I can get upset about the truth after I am dead!
See another reason that existence is great, you cannot get upset when you do not exist. You also cannot stare out at the rain, and you can’t hear the wonderful sounds it makes, and you can’t eat tasty food, etc. Granted you also can’t suffer in agony, but it is a trade and a sacrifice. The necessary reactant used up in the equation of life.
You will always have to sacrifice for as long as you are alive. It is a tough pill to swallow, and we are never able to as more times than not our sacrifices leave us unsatisfied. We should though, for our own good. Fight against the inevitable, but at least be rational in your war.
I hear commotion downstairs, and heave a heavy sigh. It seems to be time to wake up already, something I have been dreading even more than usual. My nerves are felt in my stomach, as my chest feels like it has weights upon it. The funeral is not something I am looking forward to, my mother has been a mess ever since it happened.
Her father had been feeling unwell, and was moved to the hospital a few weeks ago. She was worried and there for so many days, but it always felt like it was any day now. Which was true, he fought hard but the reaper came to his room just 2 days ago. He lived a long life, and my grandma already died a few years prior, I feel that the time was ripe.
I don’t like being in sad environments. Not that I worry that my surroundings will make me sadder, it’s just I don’t like the idea of having an audience in your grief. I am not the greatest at expressing, and as of right now my grief levels are actually minimal. We all have to die, I want to die like him. Happy, old, full of relaxation, and basking in the memory of his love
I don’t want people to stare at me and expect a certain reaction, because it will not be up to their standards. And to make matters worse, for some reason, I really struggle to cry. A storm of misery will cascade through my being, and not a simple drop is able to come out of my eyes. I am not sure if it is a physical defect, or I have dry eyes, or it is some psychological response. I don’t know, I just know it is utterly frustrating and completely evil.
I want to release like the rain, for my misery to pour out of my eyes. But it doesn’t, it stays inside me and I wonder just how much I can swell up.
Maybe this funeral is what I need, maybe seeing his body will be the catalyst. I don’t know, but I hope and I guess I’ll see. Things like funerals also show the superficiality but positive impact people can have. Because I know many people will be there to comfort, to show their concern which is noble due to the fact that most of them just do not care. It is a formality, a duty almost for close friends to do. But it’s a good thing, they can at least understand for a similar experience has happened to them. Communities are powerful, they can make you feel less or more alone. When it comes to funerals it is less alone.
I reckon I should get up now, I don’t want punctuality to be added to my parent’s list of worries. I shower, I scarf down some toast and eggs with a large cup of coffee, I get ready and wear my one suit which is luckily a black one. I don’t know how to tie a tie, so I ask my father who does it for me. And after an hour I am getting into our car.
The ride there is somber, my dad and mom sit in the front while I lounge in the back. There is no music which leaves an awkward unspoken air which isn’t the greatest thing, especially since it is a 30-minute ride to the funeral home. The rain just adding on to it all, as I continue to sit and just stare out of my window. I bide my time this way, the same way I always bide my time.
We get there as my parents opt to share an umbrella as I just run inside. I attempt to dry myself off before entering the small hall. The coffin is the first thing I see, an underwhelming image from what I was expecting. I walk down the aisle, before I peer inside and see his face. He looks different, enlarged in a way. Like the features I so recall and have memorized but just in a large aspect ratio. His color has changed, and he seems lifeless. Which makes sense.
It sucks to see him like this, but I don’t know the alternative. It would have been wonderful for him to live longer, but why? I’m not sure he was too keen on staying anyways. He was a religious man, I’m sure he died with an eager smile. I feel bad about my mother though, who silently cries as my father holds her shoulders. He isn’t crying either but his face is grim as he stares hard at my grandfather.
I feel like I should be sadder right now, but if anything, I am just bored. I hate things like this, they just call me out on my own psychotic mind and make me acknowledge them. At least it makes me frown, but not from the funeral, I am just frowning at myself.
People come in slow, as they come over and greet us. A lot of my family friends come, as I hug each of them and indulge in their small talk. On how I am fine, and how I’ve been trying to stay strong for my mother. I tell them how much I miss him, and how I see his face repeatedly appear in my mind. I tell them that the past few days have been hard, but how I’m trying to keep a positive mindset. I’m not sure how much of it I mean, probably none of it at all.
But it’s the right thing to say, and it helps fulfill the weird complex they have. To make them think they were there for me and that they comforted me and blah blah. I think I take back the community thing, I know it might be helping my mother a little but I feel like I am a celebrity at an after party.
Some speeches occur, as my father goes up to the stage and recounts the life of my grandfather. He mentions the conversation he had with him before marrying my mother, or the amazing presence he was whenever he was at our home. Two of my grandfather’s slightly younger friends go up and give some funny old men stories. Bringing back their younger days, and how my grandfather was quite the ladies’ man. One designated speaker even goes up, just a young girl from my church who speaks of how beautiful and pure of a man he was. I am not even sure if she has ever had an actual conversation with him.
Finally, after her speech the priest gets to the mic as he starts speaking of the Lord’s blessings and forgiveness of sins. By now my mother is crying audibly, as her friends and my father hold her lovingly. There’s even a hand on my shoulder, as I just direct my gaze to the floor trying to avert it all.
“Amen” everyone says.
“Amen” I quietly respond under my breath.
The ride back home actually features conversation, as my mom and dad talk about how everything was. Noting who showed up, who didn’t. My mother sheds a few small tears as I reach over and hug her and her seat. I tell them on how it was good to see him one more time, and that I hope his transition to the next life is peaceful. I think I should apply for a job; I would be solid at interviews. I always know what exactly to say.
Once we get home I run inside once again and immediately strip of my suit. It was bothering me, as it isn’t the greatest fit and it’s kind of tight. I lay in bed, and attempt to doze off before groaning into my pillow. I get out and walk into my bathroom.
I grab the counter before I peer hard into the mirror. My eyes appear sunken, not a single tear or hint of water in either of them. But I am so sad so why can’t I cry.
Cry, cry, cry.
I want to cry the same way everyone else does, and my grandfather just died so that means I should. I try to will it but absolutely nothing happens. I stare into my own eyes in the mirror and keep the lids open as if I was having a staring contest with myself. I force them that way for a few minutes until they start to burn. My eyes water a little, but that is it. No actual tears fall out of them.
I search my sink counter, opening the drawers till I find some cologne I always forget to use. I point it towards my face, and I hesitate over the trigger. Is this a good idea?
I spray myself anyways, three, four times. It’s very strong, and I feel it dutifully in my eyes as they appear red in the mirror. I feel a drop of the now largely accumulated water fall on my cheek. It’s only a single one, and after they go back to being still water around my eyes. But it was a success! I cried, I made myself cry.
I put the cologne away before I quickly wash my eyes out with water. The burning is starting to hurt now and I’m scared of whatever possible chemicals that could have gone into them. I stare into the mirror again, as I look like a stoned guy who more importantly just finished crying. Perfect.
I go back into my room, proud of my newfound accomplishment. I sit in my same spot at the window ledge and stare out at the rain once more.
It falls so hard, so plentiful. It’s like I have to focus really hard to notice the individual streaks of water. I wonder just how much water has fallen; just how much rain has been made. My one perfume induced drop is nothing compared to the ocean I see before me. I wanted release that was just a taste of it. And what a beautiful taste it was, I want it again and again. I want to cry as much as the clouds cry, I want the tears to be endless and ever pouring.
I get up again and go into the bathroom. I open the drawer and take out the same bottle and spray myself again. 5,6,7. 9,10,11. 16,17,18. 27,28,29. I keep spraying, whenever my eyes shut, I force them open again. The stings are almost unbearable, but the tears will be my remedy. I stop counting after a while, and when it feels like it is sufficient enough, I open my eyes again and stare into the mirror.
The veins of my eyes are much more prominent, as my eye turns blood red. It’s almost cool, the image it creates with my face visibly wet from my tears. I clasp my hands together, before bringing them up over my nose. I try to pose like Cabanel’s painting, but I can’t seem to replicate the beauty or angst of Lucifer. I just look stupid, but that is because his tears were real. Mine are just from physical burns to my eye, how can that count?
Is expulsion from the divine what it will take?
I slam my counter; I don’t know but this stupid cologne bottle isn’t the answer. I am no Fallen Angel; I have always been fallen. It’s harder to feel bad about your circumstances if you have never had better ones to compare to. Having no stakes has made loss not prevalent in my life.
I go back into my room before sitting in the chair of my desk. I close my eyes and concentrate on the face of my grandfather. I think of his being lying cold in the coffin, I think about how just a month ago I saw him healthy and himself.
Thud, thud, thud.
Stupid rain, the sounds distract me and force me to open my eyes. The rain is mocking me.
“Look you can’t cry look at me.”
“Yeah, wow rain you really are so cool.”
Stupid rain.
I get up and close the blinds before sitting back in my chair and shifting my attention back to my father, no grandfather. I think about his eternal fate. In a way he is lucky, he finally knows so many answers I’ve sought for so long. Is he to burn? Is he to live in paradise? Or is he to fade into nothingness? I don’t know, but he does and for that I envy him.
The sounds of the rain distract me again but this time I stare at my white blinds, like a cloud covering the Sun. I get up and open the blinds again, I need the rain.
Oh, rain how you torment me to the point of my completion.
What to do, what to do?
What is the next step of this quest I am on just how can I make myself cry. Maybe I can think of other things, my grandfather’s death really does not strike any chords. I could think of school but my grades are pretty good. I have good friends, no one has ever really broken my heart. Let’s see, I could talk about my lack of certainty for the future. But I don’t know that doesn’t seem you know, big enough.
Like oh boo hoo, you don’t know what you want to do in life. No one does that is the entire point. Knowing what to do with your life is like having a spoiler for a movie. You spend your life trying to figure it out, and right before you die, right before you finish the movie you realize.
Hmmm. I could think about my family life being I am an only child and what not but that too is pretty good. My family loves me and supports me and devotes themselves to care for me. I really am privileged.
I could think about the world, for all the suffering that is happening. Those who are starving, those who fall victim to wars that are above them, those who suffer from sickness, those who lack the ability to chase their dreams the same way I can. These things make me sad of course, but I don’t know I don’t have a direct connection with any of this.
I feel bad for them of course, I am human how can I not. But I also have no sense of their sufferings, and I can’t cry the same way the phonies at the funeral couldn’t.
Ugh, just what can I do? I could resort to physical means, but that would be just like the perfume and pointless. Plus, I am way to scared to even try anything worse.
I walk over to the window, and smush my face against the glass. My nose feels cold from it, but I stare out to the rain.
“Rain, please give me the answer. How can I become you?”
The rain continues falling just the same.
Of course, now he doesn’t want to answer. That’s just my kind of luc-. Don’t finish that sentence you have the purest luck of all.
Is something wrong with me? Why am I so bizarre it’s a Saturday and I am talking to the rain. If my friends saw me now, if my parents did.
“They would be very concerned for you.”
“Rain! You do talk!”
“Tell me, tell me please. How can I become you!”
The only noise that comes out is the constant tempo of the rain beating against the window.
Thump, thump, thump. Thumpity, thump, thump. Thumpity, thumpity, thumpity.
“Pity me rain, pity me please.”
“Why should I pity you, you have everything.”
Thump, thump, thump.
“Because I need you rain, I really do. Please understand me.”
Thump, thump, thump.
“I am sorry rain, I am sorry. You are right I do have everything.”
“Then why should I pity you.”
“Because!”
Thump, thump, thump.
“Because I need you!”
Thump, thump, thump.
“Because I have everything but I still feel like I have nothing. Because I want you to understand me since I cannot even understand me. Because I finally want to start feeling happy, I cannot remember a time I actually was.”
Thump, thump, thump.
“Come on, what do you want from me!”
“I am giving you all I have; I know it’s not enough. I am never enough I never can be. I can’t give all of me to you because I don’t even have all of me. No one does, it’s all gone away into nothingness. It has faded into the abyss. And I can’t get it back! I lost myself before I even ever had myself to lose.”
“Please rain, let me gain you. I am done with this being, let me transcend. Let me reach immortality through your cycle, for I am not fit to run through mankind’s.”
Thump, thump, thump.
“FINE, FINE. RAIN RAIN GO AWAY. YOU MOCK ME, YOU TORMENT MY ALREADY TORMENTED SOUL. YOU FIND THE PIECES OF ME THAT ARE LEFT, AND YOU STEP ON THEM. YOU STOMP ON MY ALREADY SEVERED HEAD. WHY DON’T YOU PICK ON SOMEONE YOUR OWN SIZE, I AM NOT EVEN A DROPLET AND YOU ARE THE TIMELESS TEARS OF THE LORD. ARE YOU CRYING TOO LORD, ARE YOU MOCKING ME WITH YOUR TEARS AFTER YOU CREATED ME WITHOUT THE ABILITY TO MAKE MY OWN. FINE THEN LORD, FINE THEN RAIN. I HATE BOTH OF YOU. JUST LEAVE, JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!”
I await the derisive thumps, but this time they do not arrive. I lay down, the rain’s act can’t last long. I know he will start falling again, as that is what he does. He has found his treasure; He has solved his journey already.
Two minutes, three minutes pass and the rain has still not returned. I get up and stare at the window, and just like I expected there he is falling from the heavens.
“Hello rain?”
“Where did you go, I can’t hear you anymore?”
Am I going deaf? I shove my fingers into my ears trying to clean them out. There still is no noise. I open my phone before going on to YouTube and clicking the first video in my recommended, a walkthrough of a video game. I hear the sound of the video perfectly fine, but for some reason I can’t hear the rain.
So, my ears aren’t the problem, it’s the rain then. But that can’t be, the rain can’t leave me. He has to stay with me, he is my only friend. The only one who can understand me. He doesn’t right now, I know, but I must make him.
I dash out of the door, and stop to tell my parents I am going to my friend’s house as I wear a jacket for their comfort. I sprint outside the house to the street, as I stare up at the sky.
“Please, please come back I am sorry. I didn’t mean any of it, I was just projecting all the things I hate about me on to you. You don’t deserve that rain; you are good and I am bad.”
“I know, I know you won’t respond to that for me saying I am bad is no fair. But let me explain please. I am no tragic villain I deserve no pity. I am just a person who is too afraid to work through the piles of issues he has, and thus is depending on you.”
“And and I know, I truly know that I shouldn’t. But you tell me yourself rain just what else can I do. If I depend on myself, I will just let myself down again. If I depend on anyone else, I will just drag them down with me. But you rain, you are my answer. You are my prophet, my guidance from the divine.”
“Your power hovers far over mine, your onslaught downwards can never be stopped by no mere mortal, but you can make me from being merely mortal, to being merely human for that is what I want rain. I just want to feel normal; I just want to feel it once.”
“Maybe it will repulse me, maybe my individuality is what I am meant to be. Maybe I am normal, I am just too lost in the trials of life to realize. But I know that seeing the normal experiencing the normal is what I need. I will be able to see then, I will be able to see myself.”
“Shine your light on me oh rain, so I can see if I am on my path, or if I am headed into a path that leads to destruction.”
“You are crying.”
My hands fly to my face as I feel my eyes. It is hard to tell with the rain, but they don’t seem like tears just came out of them.
“No, I am not rain, do not lie.”
“You are, I know you are.”
“But where is the satisfaction, what is the point if I can’t even tell?”
“You needed me to show you normality, and I provided but now you struggle to see it because of me.”
“That’s not true rain, stop it you are trying to mess with my head. I know you can save me if you really try.”
“No one can save you; they can keep you afloat, but only you can save you. I can help, as I have already done but my role is over.”
“You did nothing rain; don’t lie to me you did nothing. You are just projecting your uselessness on me!”
Thump, thump, thump.
Stop, stop, stop it please.
Thump, thump, thump.
Thump, thump, thump.
Thump, thump, thump.
Stop, stop, stop.
Stop, stop, stop.
I cover my ears with my hands, as I run back into the house. I still hear the sound as if my hands do nothing to mute it. I enter my room, as I lay into my bed and go under my covers.
Thump, thump, thump.
I am sorry.
Thump, thump, thump.
I am sorry to the world.
Thump, thump, thump.
I am sorry to myself.
Thump, thump, thump.
I am sorry I was never able to get out of the shell I created for myself, because I was always too scared of getting hurt or taking risks even though the shell I made had an interior of nails. I am sorry that I found flaws in perfection, and I strived for perfection while ignoring my own flaws. I am sorry I live life as if I have exhausted all my possibilities and all my chances even though my life has never even begun. I am sorry I treated my 1/5 crisis like I was facing any adversity that was not me. I am sorry rain as I tried to impose all the bad of me onto you because I was never able to accept it myself. I am sorry, I am so sorry.
I hope you can find it in you to forgive me. I know it’s not easy and it will take me time to forgive myself, it is something that must be earned not handed. The world was handed to me, but this is different. This is my journey; this is my voyage. I must learn to accept the bad on my quest for good. It is baggage, but it is my baggage and it is as dear to me as the ending of this is.
Goodbye misery, you are not going anywhere but now you seem to have lost your purpose for I have finally found mine.
I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know is that I am under my covers with my blanket covering my entire being. I lay quiet to try and hear the rain, but I can’t for some reason. Has he chosen to gone silent again?
I throw my covers off of me, as an obnoxious glare of Sun shines into my eyes. Not believing myself I get out closer to my window, and sit in the same position I always sit in as I stare out. And lo and behold there she shines.
Her beauty radiant, everlasting like the rain but in her own way.
I feel tears coming out of my eyes, I did it I truly did it. I am crying, I am crying off of my own accord.
Thank you rain, and goodbye. I need you not no more. Don’t worry, I will still bask in your presence whenever you are there, but I shall treat you as a blessing and not a necessity.
May more crops such as I sprout from your goodness.
Don’t worry about the Sun either, I won’t just start depending on it now that I stopped with you.
My noise is hit with a familiar smell, something like rust. I wonder where that is from. I touch my eyes to feel my newfound ability to cry, as I stare in awe at my hand. It is covered in blood, blood that came out of my eyes.
Eh, it's good enough. It counts.
