I’m chasing the monsoon. I think it’s what
I want, and I pursue it as if my life depended on it. I’m chasing some
intangible thought that isn’t yet grab-able in my native tongue. I am chasing
the monsoon, because the rains give way to a full moon. Where are you moon? I
haven’t seen you for days. I’m tied to the tide. Moon, I miss your smile – I
haven’t seen that in a good long while. Chasing the monsoon, my face is wet
with tears and sweat and I doubt I’ll ever reach the moon.
And now the journey leaves me angry. It’s not a
fierce anger, it’s not a violent anger, it’s a passive anger that seeps in
through damp clothes that you are not sure if they are damp or just cold. To
touch cold and to try on a wet t-shirt that would never dry.
It moves slowly at first as if you’ll run
towards it. It moves slowly so you can catch up to it.
Caught like a lump in my throat or water
brimming at the edge of my eyes.
The sky opens and the monsoon begins.
