The fog of sleep rose and started to dissipate like cigaret smoke. It was still dark but it was a losing battle to the eventual morning, so went down and tried to shake off the last traces of sleep. I went out and looked at the sky, nightglow and all. The heavens spoke of rain, and the desire for slumber. Shivering, I knew that it was just this kind of cold that can raise memories of the kind of warmth under the covers. So, I ate cold rice and even colder chicken and knew that the chill of the bath was strange comfort instead of pining away in bed. On my way to the office the storm just came closer.
The rains are bringing my spirits up, this is the time of the year again when it is a comfort waking up to rain falling. I have always felt summers were forlorn, only brightened in some spots by the sudden reunions of familiar faces. Perhaps it is just the way that the rains are a better lubricant for my thoughts, and even emotions. They slide more easily. And it is easier to have conversations with myself.
The week has been spiked by brushes with memories, a brush in the way that the fingers of someone loved can brush the back of your head down to your shoulder. In the course of writing memories and imagined future memories intermingled that it is easier to look forward a few months at a time. Even now, I am looking forward to rain falling outside our room.
I guess it's time to write stories again.
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