It’s raining hearts
You can stand under my umbrella…ella…ella…
I’ve been slacking on the writing front, I know.
It’s sort of a self-torturous choice, being a writer. I didn’t realize it until I started taking it seriously. Because it’s all in your head, you see. All your fantasies, dreams, hopes, fears, despairs, all the weird, incomprehensible, embarrassing details that you hope others would not notice, underneath all that pretty prose. You hope that through clarity, that the confusion of emotional turmoil brought on by the daily toil would shatter. You hope that through beauty, the essence of who you are would transcend the mundanity of living as it is. And everything is amplified, and everything vibrates, and everything means something and if you can’t see it you will delve into it and feel it with every inch of your skin from the inside out, and every letter carries. You hope that somehow, the best of you would be distilled, and transformed, and it rises, and the scent would linger, on someone, something, through some serendipitous fashion, and that would be all that matters.
Some days, that is all true.
Other days, I can barely hold up the umbrella.
Mortal obligations weight so.
I’m trying to get back to the former.
Meanwhile, I imagine that underneath that dark cloud, it’s raining hearts.