The Rain On Monday

Written words are the only thing my mind can find ease in.


37. Projection

The wind is howling your name through the midnight air, knocking on my window, asking me to open it.

The rain is spiraling out of control, beating harshly on my window, daring me to open it.

Indecisive, I lain there looking up at the blank, white ceiling, staring at cars’ head lights as they passed by in a hurry to get home, out of the rain and under the safety of their ceilings.

The lights kept me in suspense, as one came, another left, until dawn was soon upon the country, did I close my eyes and dream of those cars’ lights.

The thing that always seemed to fascinate me about those cars’ lights, were the numerous, unknown stories of who owned that car, that owned its lights.

Sometimes, I would just make up a story in my mind that the person’s life may follow, judging by how fast or how slow their head lights projected onto the blank wall ahead of me.

I’d become engrossed in these stories, almost believing that they were real and wallowing in pity for these people’s stories and lives, which may or may not be true.

Sometimes I’d even find myself smiling at one point in the day, not because I’d remembered something funny, but because I’d think, maybe, just maybe the cars’ owners would be having a good day, and they wouldn’t be driving unintentionally by my house at night for me to guess what was happening.

Still, when I’m restless and cannot sleep, I’ll stare at the blank wall in front of me, and hope for someone like me to pass by.

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