It’s raining outside. I am listening to a song in a language I can’t understand. The leaves look heavy because of the raindrops which look like pieces of stars. I am trying to calm my nerves by writing my other escape apart from painting.
The shadow of September is still with me. Soon I will be looking back and thinking about these days that are not quiet. The sad part — I can’t write about the white noise that is trapped in me.
The weight of it and the distractions I need, there’s no end for it. Is there a name for that kind of sadness that can’t be defined?
Or maybe with time, we become that sadness. We become stoic. We learn that this is how it is and I think that’s okay.
It’s raining outside and quietly I am trying to drench the pages inside.