halflight

He flopped down across the bottom of the bed, positioning his head as close to the open window as possible he tucked a pillow under his chin and closed his eyes in the dim half-light.  The sound of the falling rain filled the night.  Occasionally a car would pass, the tires shusshing through the water pooled on the surface of the road.  He thought about the kind of people who didn’t like the rain.  He would never be able to understand them.  The sound of falling raindrops was one of his greatest sensory pleasures.  He opened his eyes, looking past the elaborate wrought iron-work of the balcony railing, past the tree lit up by the streetlamp, past the powerlines, shining, dripping, and up at the grey mass of the sky, clouds illuminated from below by the lights of the city.  He thought about how his life, his heart had been broken open, it’s dark secrets pooling out like the water gathered on the inky black asphalt down below.  He had been a mess of swirling emotional turmoil for the past month, it only just beginning to settle again; his eating and sleeping patterns returning to normal.  How could he ever share what he had learned, the discoveries he’d made about himself, about love and faith, fear, grace and mercy.  About selflessness and self-preservation.  Everything at once.  It was never just one thing.  All or nothing at all.

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