I woke up to a knotted feeling in my chest. I call it the feeling of smelling rain in the air. To my left, a man sleeps curled under the blanket, and beyond him, morning opens its eyes behind the curtains. The heaviness in my chest is an accumulation of many years. Like Sam and Dean’s memory flashes of Hell, it visits me as a reminder of monsoon bursts, evening walks, prolonged… death throes, and rain. It always passes soon enough. They were never much for lingering. And so I, feeling bottled up and inadequate, open my laptop to cry.
*So long as the ghosts of the years survive the sea of change, so long shall the will to live return, again and again. For to be able to hold such pain and joy within a single, humble being is a miracle as spectacular as the sun shattering awake against the mountains. And it is the desire, nay, the hunger, to tear one’s self asunder in search of the holy impact that shall drive man to dream. To feel. To hope.