Affectation

What a dreary two days this has been, the rain falling lightly yet steadily, clouds blanketing the sky like a phantom hand. Everything is in slow motion: folks on their way to or from work, traffic streaming prosaically like an armada of idiot ships. I see all of this and sigh. The peninsula is in abject hibernation.

The streets are saunas. Clothes cling to their wearers, and neither man nor woman can escape the cruel reach of Humidity Hair, that blackguard. Outside, a man waits for a bus. Betraying its owner like a dog shitting on bathroom slippers, the moisture-protective shelter of his umbrella is penetrated, and fat drops of rain fall onto his forehead like a sarcastic baptism.

I see all of this from my window. That I am inside and dry offers no comfort or assurance. Bleak. The weather is a metaphor of my worldview.

My appetite is nonexistent. I can't even stomach a couple of crackers or some tea with lemon. I jump when the telephone rings, afraid of whomever the caller may be for no logical reason whatsoever. Whenever someone walks by my door, I tense up, afraid he might knock.

And just as I am about to turn on the television for a marathon session of passivity, mental Novocain therapy, I am awoken. It strikes my periphery like a palm slapping a bongo. I turn and look. The sky is alive! Everything is drenched in a golden clarity, beauty unmasked. The sun has exploded through the clouds like a drowning man cresting the water's surface; the clouds are creeping away like anorexic raiders. This, this is the Resurrection. This is the most incredible thing I have ever seen.

Minutes pass as I stand and gape at the horizon, the violet sky slowing turning black. Now it is completely dark, but my heart is afire. No thing ever really dies, I realize; it just goes away for a while, always with the promise to return.

I am starving.