Alive

It’s a moment of pure inspiration that causes me to do it, for the most part.  Or maybe it’s just the overwhelming desire to do something frowned upon, almost taboo.  Perhaps it is that desperate longing to just escape from the materialistic, falsified world we create for ourselves.  Whatever it is that compels me to move is something different, something otherworldly, and it’s all I can do to keep from simply flinging my hands upward to reach something fantastic and unfathomable from above the gray-blue sky and bring it down to me.  It’s a simple procedure, really; one knee lifted, one foot raised and planted down on the slate gray shingles.  It’s just one leg, and then the next, a duck of the head, and I’m set.  The cool wind whispers through my hair, seeping in the open window now behind me and simultaneously the fresh scent of impending rain is wafted to reach my nose.  I close my eyes slowly and gratefully inhale, savoring each breath.  I’m alone, true, but not lonely.  I know what is to come, the intensity, the simplistic beauty, the emotion of this electrically charged air.1

And then, suddenly, it begins.  I start minutely as a cold, wet sensation spreads from my cheek to the rest of my body, and a genuine grin seeps into my eyes.  The rhythm of the rain accelerates with a soft pitter patter drum, until the movement of tree leaves and precipitation is all that can be heard.  I can feel my clothes beginning to stick like a second skin to my body, sense my hair stringing downward, or illustrate the rosy excitement pictured on my cheeks.  Harder still, the rain comes down, and I cling onto the window pane with the seemingly abortive hope of not slipping.  2

The dark clouds extend for years beyond the scope of my eyes, and I take comfort in knowing that for now, right here I can think, I can feel, I can just be, uninterrupted.  I am fascinated by the thought that somewhere, someone else understands this state of non-being.  They can sit on a roof, and sing to the rain, the storm, the tempest; sing until they can realize the downpour has created a new slate, dismissing all traces of human existence.3

A giddy laugh bubbles up from deep within me, and I can’t help but expose it to this world, this phenomenon.  Once again, I realize that this is as simple as beauty can get without being painful to its witness, because sometimes, there’s too much to comprehend, and it’s so tempting to shout out to a deafened world, to struggle to open their eyes.  These moments are what I live for, where I know there is no meaning without this feeling, without remembering the experience.  In a rare moment of self completion, I raise my head up to the sky, drenched clothes plastered to my body.  Wordlessly, I show each individual particle of water the freedom in capturing the force that can create pure beauty in absolutely anything.  I smile inwardly, and, one foot, then the next climbs back in the window.  I disregard the water that cascades off my clothes with each small movement and silently wring my hair out on the carpet.  The window gets closed, and almost sadly I raise a hand to trail along the cool wet glass.  The moment over, I stare outside, just an onlooker now; an onlooker, just awaiting the next storm.4