The Ends of Being and Ideal Grace

Tropical. From root word trope, (1) any literary or rhetorical device that consists of the use of words other than their literal sense. -Paraphrased from http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/trope.

The skies have been gray for about a week now. The rain stops from time to time but the skies still appear to be cold sheets of steel. No rainbows, no blessed ray of yellow sunlight. Winds blow around, going about its usual windy ways. I zip my jacket up, pull the cuffs down over my chilled hands. I hold my broken umbrella against the wind. It stirs up my hair and my thoughts as well. It feels like December morning. I smile at the thought of December and its mess of activities. But today was the first day of August and the cold seems rather foreboding compared to the chills brought about by a December midnight spent sitting atop the steps. If it had a face, it would be frowning and pouting. I remind myself that today is August, not December and it's not like any December will be the same again.

Drops of rain fall with increasing frequency and intensity. I hang on to my umbrella and trudge along, the hems of my jeans brushing the rivulets of water on the sidewalk. I walk up the road, imagining myself shaking my fist up to the charcoal drawing heavens. Rain makes everything so hard, so heavy... so sad. Not to mention wet, of course. The damp bleakness of it all makes me long for the dusty, humid summer. Did I just dream summer up? Did summer even happen? Was it not a distant unreality? There's no sun, there's no warmth.  The wind blows again, intensifying my clear want of warmth. The jacket has not been doing a good job. I fight the wind as I walk up the road and I realize that I haven't seen anyone walking along the road since I started walking. Maybe that's what intensifies the cold; the feeling that all people are inside their homes, cuddled under their blankets while you are braving the elements. But maybe it's just the horror movie chill of walking alone on a damp shrubby road at dusk on an unforgiving rainy day.

I get on a jeep and I spend the 15 minute ride silently watching the drops of rain drip off the tips of my hair. Despite the umbrella, half the length of my hair is wet. The wind was everywhere, the rain with it. I got off the jeep and back to the now raging torrential rainfall. I start for the homestretch that seemed like forever. The rain was beating onto my umbrella, splashing on my jeans and soaking my jacket sleeves. I feel like a battered ragdoll hosed down by some sadistic playmate. Memories of warmth, sunshine and light have completely deserted me. I hold up my umbrella, push my body forward and try to put conviction in my steps. A little more. Almost there. Just ten steps more. I staggered through the gates of my boarding house with a slight sense of contentment. I crash on the sofa of our living room, soaked but at least out of the rain.

Thunder rumbles in the distance. I'm wrapped up in a flowery blanket, dry and physically warm. The rain pours and lighting flashes across my window. I sit calmly on my bed. The wind rush through the screen windows and the curtains flutter like certain long eyelashes on familiar brown eyes. A sensation like cold welts of rain tear through. No umbrella, no jacket. An eternal tempest roaring with the bitter cold.


Yay metaphors.