Letter (7)

Back to another part of the Letter series. I honestly have no idea where this is going or what I'm going to write until I start, but that's part of the fun, since it's more train of thought than anything else and what I write always surprises, if that makes sense.

I'd like to start another sort of flash fiction series on the blog, but I don't have any great ideas yet. Hopefully something good comes to mind. Possibly something incorporating my slew of fucked up dreams.

-Letter (7)-

It has rained for so many days straight that I stopped counting. At least it isn’t snow, and at least it isn’t cold. It’s not warm, but it’s something, just as everything is something, and I’m being vague, and I’m sorry for that, and for so much else.

--

You see, the rain plays music that most of us can’t hear, but I’ve been training myself for years. I figure I can’t play a real instrument, and although you can’t play the rain, you can take meaning from it and dispense that meaning into your life.

--

Our lives are made up of thousands and thousands of moments. Millions, actually. Maybe more. Most moments aren’t important, and some matter far more than others, but each moment exists on some level, and each moment, down the most miniscule, those that are not only forgotten but never remembered, each moment is a raindrop, and each moment has a certain pitch and frequency and sound. Each moment is a note. Each moment is a piece of a song, a part of music—the music of our lives.

--

I haven’t lived a very long time but I think my life is already made up of many moments. Many movements, if you will. Now more than ever the moments are adding up faster than I can keep track of, and along with the moments, the rain is falling, and falling, and falling, and I can’t avoid the raindrops.

--

Have you ever tried that? Being out in the rain but trying to weave through the drops? Remember, once, when that storm broke over us, and shortly after everything else broke?

 The song’s growing more complex, preludes and interludes and ludes I don’t even know the names of, and the repeats, my god the repeats.

--

 de capo al fine.

--

But we can’t go back to the beginning. I know that now, as I’ve always known but never wanted to admit. Andante. I can’t run, just drive across this world as I’ve been driving. Hear the music of the rain, the rhapsody of the storms, as this truly is the overture to the rest of my life.

--

And so, for now, I don’t drive. I don’t do much of anything other than sit out in the rain and listen to the song of my life. And although it’s a sad, sad song, minor in nature and even dissonant at times, it’s still a song, and it still has meaning, and that, really, is all we’re searching for.