And the rain won’t let up.
It goes on and on for hours, without end. Then it comes to a hurried hush for a minute or two, only to unleash itself again in a sound full of urgency to touch the ground. And I am caught quite unconsciously by its weeping sound as I listen to the pitter-patter of the rain on the rooftop. There is something about the rain that brings back so many thoughts, so many memories. And in the midst of its pouring sound, I found myself thinking that Heaven must be so sad right now to cry with so much tears, to weep with such coldness.
I used to love the rain when I was young. When the rolling clouds begin to scatter its raindrops I would rush outside to watch it fall from the heavenly skies, to taste the droplets on my tongue, to dance beneath its downpour. And when the water would rise above the ground and submerge the entire neighborhood, me and my childhood friends would swim through the murky waters like tadpoles. We were carefree, we were young but most of all we were at one with our experience.
But when I was growing up, I found my memories with the rain growing ever more distant and vague. And I felt betrayed by a realization that the rain was not with me anymore. I could only look back now and remember: the rain was never on my side. And whenever days like these came to haunt me I remember, in a sudden burst of nostalgia, the memories of my forgotten past and how at 18 I bled my heart out under the stormy rain in hope of saving a lost love, how at 19 I shivered for nights on end, cold and alone, as I wandered across the city streets knowing I had no place to go, how at 20 I waited for the rain to speak like it once did when I was young and how today I listened to its sound and felt as if I had lost a part of me.
For a child the rain falls as a silent salvation. But for a grown-up the rain is a silent return to a time when life was still more gentle, more alive. And how could I be mistaken by this? When I try to look back, I only remember myself as a kid who swam through the murky waters without any fear or sense of danger but as a young adult I am afraid to even dip a toe in the floodwaters of Espana Boulevard. As a kid I waited for the rainfall; as an adult I waited for the sun. Was it Nietzsche who once said that the hardest thing in life is not in learning, but in unlearning? Or is there any notable truth in Heidegger’s words about Destruktion of pre-established notions, concepts, ideas?
I wish I could undo it all and go back to the time when I was once so carefree, so happy, and tell my 8 year old self that the world out there is cold, unforgiving. But then there is so much in innocence as the will to believe in life, in good things.
I don’t believe in anything, anymore. Believing is for the people who haven’t experienced the world yet, who haven’t been prostituted, bastardized by the evil hands of human existence. Believing is for the people who are ready to sacrifice their reason in exchange for something more promising, more heavenly. Believing is for the children.
I wish not too sound to pessimistic. What I am saying is what I have experienced. I still remain faithful to my own notion of ‘faith’. Just because I do not believe anymore does not mean that I am faithless. I believe in something unseen, something nameless. I believe in something that does not exist in my mind. Can I even say that I do not know what I believe in? I just know and I just believe. And that the mere attempt to verbalize it actually defeats my belief. Maybe writing here too is meaningless. When you believe, you just believe. I do not understand the demand to expound what you believe in, to a certain point that you get disenchanted to that particular object of belief, to a point where you stop believing in anything, anymore.
Maybe I could just wait for the sun to shine again. When I get older I will look back to this day and feel contented with everything that I have been through. I will not forget believing and not believing both at the same time. Life is like that: you will be given something to believe in, only to deny it later on. Like the rain, the memories.
I could still hear the mournful sound of the rain. It hasn’t let up since I started writing this entry and I figure “Where do all the rain come from?” The funny thing is that even if you stop believing, that silly little child in you just won’t quit trying. I could feel that 8 year old kid inside of me, begging to be released to be with the rain, and I could hear myself whispering, “let it go, let it go” as I lay here waiting for the sun to shine again.