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When it rained in her room, I often found it best to sit and wait. Sometimes it even synchronised with the humid eternity that was outside the building. The sound of raindrops created such a poor harmony with the endless sobs it made me want to write it in a song and when she would die (when, never if), I’d play it at night. I could, of course, try to cry the same way she did but to not succeed and not have that same broken musicality would have been the closest to a blasphemy as I could perceive.
I opened the curtains this time, glanced outside, tried to count the seconds between the sobs but in between the rain, the people, the howling of the wind and the train, I folded within myself and hid there, waiting and hoping. How very little it took me these days to just put up my walls and expect things. Silly rabbit. Even the word itself, (I keep reminding myself not to and like a god damned Alzheimer patient, I keep forgetting), implies expectation. I know, the second I discover the bud of the feeling in my core, that it will lead to nothing good and yet I hope, yet I stay and wait and expect. I forget how easy it is to be disappointed, I forget just how bloody difficult it is to trust and I do it — I do it and then when she cries, I turn around and wait. Vicious circle of expecting and forgetting and such a fucking idiot, aren’t I?
When it rained in her room, I often found it best to sit and wait.
Eventually, I unfolded and cried too. And when I cried, I finally became whole again.