Sometimes I like rainy days. The pitter-patter of rain drops falling and trickling down a window pain or umbrella is relaxing. Sometimes rainy days paint an overcast slate grey sky, that can make 2pm on a Summer Monday resemble a cozy September evening.
Lately indoors has become more of a comfort once again: I’m regretful to say that I’d rather hibernate in familiar surroundings than head-out unless totally necessary. As cliche as it sounds, I’m back to the same old repetition of fluctuating somewhere between being totally in the blue and sunshine yellow.
At most, the only thing that gets me up in the morning is a cup of low-grade instant coffee; regardless of it’s mysterious tangy aftertaste. I take to opening a book, only to find myself putting it down before the prologue ceases.
I settle down to uncover something with comedic value, in the hope of keeping distracted, simply to continously pause it as thoughts keep ruining through my head. How many times do I have to reply situations and memories in my mind until they become forgiven or relived?
With the lingering bitterness, I can’t help but spiral downwards with tears welling in my eyes: but I can’t tell you this… you don’t want to hear it anymore. By your decision alone you freed yourself for any form of connection to me. Free like a bird whom had been cadged.