I always love rainy season: the romantic mist and nostalgic feeling of my childhood.
At this moment, as James Joyce might say, “In the virgin womb of imagination, the word was made flesh.”
I write, weep, dance but never I’ve been weary. This is the season of union, the collision of what is right or wrong, what is believed and discreetly disdained.
As I strolled on my way home, I realized how God blessed me dear, healing my wound, lifting me up, and letting me have a grasp of Eden’s breath.
The gray sky asked me tenderly, “Do you love, my friend?”
And I said, “Yes. I do love, and I love to say I love you because I’m thankful for what I’ve had.”
Then she whispered to me triumphantly about the day she was bored in the womb of the Divine Imagination.
I inhaled every memory and listened to her song, saying hello to the wind, smiling to the cloud, weaving my way to The Path Beyond The Light as this day I was reborn again.
I remembered how I never said goodbye when I walked away because I didn’t know that I had done it after I set foot at new path, new place, new home. How the magnifying the sky had led me, in the breadth of the insensible.
Time passed by and abode when the dance of fate met her partner. Her gentle touch slowly cleared my vision in the thick mist of love. Then suddenly it hit me: I’m paler by the night but brighter with joy.
image, taken from here