Stranded

There’s something about that first shower that breaks the dry summer spell. There’s no telling where you will be or what you will be in the middle of when it happens, when those blessed first drops hit the brown earth, trickle down a car window or find their way on your skin. And in that moment, everything comes to a standstill.

The rush of life in its morbid, monotonous sense stops and the truly ecstatic kind takes its place. You stop moving and you notice. You notice things around you that you otherwise wouldn't. The gray skies shadowing the city, the splattering drops on the pavement next to the red light, the trees that hover as the wind bustles through them, the water dripping on signboards you’d otherwise ignore, even the milky texture the puddles seem to imitate.

You can’t help but wonder where all that water is headed and you can’t get enough of the fresh, damp air seasoned with change. And with this comes the realization of the time that has passed, another summer over. You realize how life has been moving all along while you were busy living it, how a season passed as another one ushers in. It catches you by surprise even though you had been waiting for it all along. The sheerness of your existence and that of everything around seeps in.

And then just as suddenly, you jolt back to now. The moment is over. A smile creeps up to the corner of your lips and you make a mental note to be more aware of the world around you, that quiet changing world. You promise yourself you’ll never get too busy again to notice, strong-willed promises of never getting too occupied again, or even too apathetic.

But before you know it, the leaves are turning golden as autumn unravels, another monsoon over. It catches you by surprise even though you had been waiting for it all along. Our days got busy again, apathy took over again.