Standing Up with the DownPours

A heavy downpour it is. Every drop pregnant in its journey splashes on the surfaces and meet its doom. And like nobody cares about it. 'Cause there are too many before and after. Too many countless.

Perceptions change with the age. With the growth of the psyche. It used to be an urgency for old newspapers in the childhood. Yes, the tiny paper boats. Printed, colorful. Every variety but bloomed the similar smile. A huge one. Purest as these droplets. And the size matters. But with a twist. The twist was but too scientific to reach a child's comprehension. The big ones were trusted to be the strongest. But sigh! The big ones wretched down, wet and sooner. Tears flowed through the heart. Oh why the betrayal?

Moving on, that rain isn't that pure gained acknowledgement. Everything is not what it seems like. Romanticism triggered a storm with every uproarious thunder. Every droplet that touched the skin reminded of that special one. Music of showers playing in the background; from Bollywood to Rabindrasangeet, from country music to uncut folks. The melody ran through every capillary passing through the heart. The weather, the fondness; you ought to be with me. I ought to be in your arms. But the playlist shuffled on sad notes too, unexpectedly. Oh why the betrayal?

Having known much about life by now, the showers still retain its essence. Memories, photos, moments, conversations, promises : scattered collaged on the floor. Few got washed away by the previous downpours. Few remained. And I learned to look up at the sky now. The thunders fascinate me these days. That this nature, however brutal it can be, shall come back again and again. Splashing its love over the barren heart. No stupid promises anymore. But a pen and a paper. The wet air smells so much of bliss now. And I care not about betrayals anymore.