Calling for an umbrella

a strange journal into the unemployment of S.Kandaswamy 
chapter 12: Calling for an umbrella                                                                                                        

The city street grumbles under the thundering echo of the new born sky and waiting to cry at the sound of my sad song as I step into the puddles as I walk with an umbrella, black among the thousands and I have to wonder of how many weep with their tears for they are not a part of and behind they weep still, behind the darkening clouds moving among us.

This pointless use of an instrument of prevention has now become the mask that hides the gentle rain that should fall lovingly upon my face and I don’t want to see the sun today for I wish to gain nothing on this rainy day. I look back over my shoulder at the many shades of grey and I feel that the rain is falling harder than before, drenching my lips as they open to love and to close when I finally open my eyes in the downpour beating upon my face.

My last cigarette has sold me out at last as the ash now trickles down my fingers and my throat would like to speak and to caress the sweet words I knew yesterday. To see the white pillars of smoke turning on their own in the wide open sky, and every raindrop that spins in the drawing circle that envelopes my being and that has trapped my voice inside the containing umbrella.

Sitting alone without a thought in this gloom and alone on a rock and my fingers are open to outstretch and I try to catch every raindrop that falls away from my face. I take the trouble to smile like everybody but the corners of my mouth have stretched enough and the pretence has been carried away by its own pleasure. But through all this, my joy and happiness that they cannot seem to see or hear, brings me all the more affection towards this soulful alliance with my miscarried laughter.

It’s raining for I wish for it to begin and heaven must cry for their peace as it soaks itself in its pride and the angels pretend to comfort themselves as their wings have no feathers and they weep for their memories of servitude. The cross is burning under the roof and all their tears will never wash away. Down the pier I find refuge from this now abysmal deluge I have realised and I thank the heavens for slipping away with the rain that has passed over and dropping its beloved counsel that is muttered in every prayer and I am thankful for the rain that now wets my umbrella.