Transatlanticism

I feel like I’m watching everything from space.

It doesn’t feel real, this wind that blows my hair into unintelligible masses of dark entwined curls. It doesn’t feel real, this twilight sky that dyes my hands a different colour with every passing instant. It doesn’t feel real, that as I sit here, no one walks into interrupt this solitude that I would normally despise.

Each breath feels like I’m intruding upon a stranger’s body – it feels like this is someone else’s skin, someone else’s hands upon the smooth stone, someone’s else voice that I speak with, someone else’s mind that I think this with. And as I look around, I almost feel as if I should chance upon myself, perhaps sitting on the other side of the rock, maybe leaning against it with headphones plugged in and drumming imaginarily. But that won’t happen anytime soon, because this situation is one of misplaced, mistaken identity.

Somewhere far behind, there is a cacophony of voices as children play in the street, arguing over trivial matters, solely for the sake of argument, because the fading light has suspended play, and it cannot resume till the streetlights switch themselves on; besides, arguing is a much better way to while away the interim, as opposed to the other option of returning home and coming back later. Somewhere in the same beyond, a young boy learns to ride the bicycle, and he wears a triumphant look on his face because he hasn’t fallen down yet. It will be years until her realizes that with training wheels, it is impossible to fall down. But until then, he rejoices in his own little head. He is his own Superman today.

Clearer is the voice of a fifteen-year-old, ringing with laughter and spite, as she excitedly talks on the phone and giggles meanly at the romantic plight of the person on the line. But they are best friends, and she will be the first to grin broadly when her friend’s dilemma solves itself.

And the trees talk to themselves, rustling slowly in an arboreal baritone. The wind, rain-soaked from its many travels, whips around them - whips around all of them, and whips around me, and then spirals away. And the first drop of rain falls on the parched ground, and the ground engulfs the drop in sultry summer dust. And a second drop falls on the stone, courses its way slowly down the rock face and disappears.

Third.

Fourth.

Fifth.

And it was impossible to count after that.

So it rained and I sat there on the rock like I was part of it, dripping wet. Like little shards the drops fell as if exacting revenge, cold and minuscule, and as they reached the ground they stripped me of my warmth. And as sheet after sheet of this rain fell down it left each cold layer of me exposed to further battery. The ground protested, sending up earthy puffs of scent and little mists, but the rain washed it all away.

Feet slid into the ground; the ground that was still surprisingly warm and hard in spite of the rain that tried to change it. And as the water made little pools around my feet, a queer warmth engulfed my toes, and the water rushed into little crevices it still hadn’t found. Sticky, muddy heat mixed between my fingers, swirled around and submitted to the wrath of the rain.

And just as suddenly as the assault had begun, it ended.

The earth was left looking rather shamefaced for giving in so soon, and it retaliated by throwing up the warm, humid transparent fog of its scent again, and the grass clung on to little droplets like they were prisoners of war.

The rock with a single smooth sheet of shellacked water gleamed mutely in the orange streetlight.

The children were hustled home and toweled well, and then made to do their homework.

The romantic dilemma had not yet solved itself, but the sight of the ‘romantic, even sexy! Weather had left the talkers spellbound.

The Superman rode his cycle home in the rain, feeling altogether heroic.

And I started walking back home.

I had had enough of introspection for the day.