I find simple pleasure on rainy days, and cloudy mornings. I sit close to the window. I feel the cold against it, and listen to the patter. It seems that on those kinds of days, the whole household sleeps longer, and deeper. Then of course when I happen to open my eyes and realize I am awake, quiet greets me with a questioning gaze. I gaze back, as if to inquire “What do you mean? What am I supposed to do?” Suddenly, my thoughts seem to rush to me in bouts of suggestions. “Get up! Shower! Clean up the kitchen!” To that I reply with silence, then stretching. I end up ignoring the authoritative calls altogether as I roll back into slumber’s arms. An act of defiance and fear.
Defiance for I dislike being ordered around. Fear because I know vengeance awaits me at my second waking.
Before silence could be interrupted in my head this time, I get up with a semblance of determination and no further thought on what it is I am doing, or what it is I will do. Like a machine devoid of feelings I step in the bathtub and let the shower head do its job.
Sweet silence is here too! I feel a smile form but I dismiss it. Instead I want to remain concentrated on my senses and not my consciousness. Sweet silence in the rushing of the pipe water. It almost feels like a natural occurrence, a small waterfall perhaps. My thoughts need not to be drowned. My head is already filled with sensations. Now that I recall, I must’ve missed the touch of my dress as I pulled it on me. I do remember the smooth and swift movements of my hands lotioning my skin.
The rest of my journey brought me to the dining table where I sat with a cup of tea, a computer – that device felt like the odd one, and my small wallet shaped bible. I unclasped it and searched its pages looking for a mark I left there previously. Then I read, and read. Oh! Some feelings now in my chest. I instantly despised it. It felt uncomfortable, constricting – it was telling me the truth but I did not know yet. I reread it absentmindedly and got pulled back by some sort of understanding. An understanding that my mind didn’t process but only delivered somehow. I had to read again, and read myself – I was not at fault nor at the center of my difficulties, rather I was a scene that uncovered it. And just like the blind man I read about, even his parents weren’t at fault. Mine weren’t – although they made me surfer greatly. Yet, after Jesus made that clay and covered the place that was disabled on his body sent him to wash the clay away. By doing so he uncovered what had been done – a miracle. He uncovered his sight.
I wonder what I’ll uncover. The places on me that are in a way disabled are more than one. My heart, my mind, my spirit – only inner places. How will I be touched? I don’t know.
I remain in this gray area besides the window. I can see the happenings but not clearly. Most unlikely do I see what will become of the clouds. Still, I delight in this weather. It seems to understand me, reciprocating my interrogations, and my weariness. It does so distinctly despite the several songs of Soul and tunes of Jazz I later played to shake up my mood, it is there as the truth of my condition, and a faithful companion in waiting for, for something else.
The saxophone agreed, pitching in the highs and lows as I finished bearing my state of mind.