Monsoon

I have no feeling for the rain, except that I enjoy it, and that I also enjoy people's derision, disgust and disdain for it.

Today I have spent the entire day indoors, while it pitter-patters outside, ranging from light pittering to tremendous pattering, enough to shake my windows and scare mighty, bulky, mammoth airplanes to cower to the ground and refuse to take flight.

The greenery though speaks to me, speaks to me of the past, of history, a tree that stands in front of me might have stood in front of another sunnuvvabitch a hundred years ago, as bored by the monsoon as he was by existence in general.

He too, like me, might have looked at the tree, the trees, the bushes, the grass, and thought to himself that there might have been another sunnuvabitch a hundred years before him who also stood helplessly at the mercy of the weather gods, himself wondering if the tree in front of him was just a shrub a hundred years before him, so small, so fragile, protected by a sunnuvvabitch with a heart that pitter-pattered at the sight of it.