We Drop Harder

When it rains, I don’t know what to do. Just get wet I guess. I’ve sworn off umbrellas as some sort of comedic act of heroic stubborness; as if there is meaning in getting drenched beyond discomfort and a sour mood. I’ve been happy in rain before but rarely in a cold season. The puddles that stay for the day are curbside rivers that splash on you like a dirty wave as the city bus barrels by and laughs exhaust.

In the place you stay long enough to know where planes pass over head, you will find a damp sorrow; soggy and heavy in your clothes. In your haste to chase fulfillment, you may stomp a sad puddle right up your pant legs. But we all have to tread somewhere. We have to call our footsteps a city. We’ll never love every stride. What was I thinking putting my feet down so certainly in such a dark water well? Raindrops make it look so easy; like heavens divers leaving an echo of perfect rings on a pothole lake, covered in oil rainbows. If we could come and go like that. But we drop harder.

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1 Comment

Filed under Poetry, Prose, Rambling

One response to “We Drop Harder

  1. Nick See

    Great post. “We have to call our footsteps a city.”

    You might like Michel De Certeau’s The Practice of Everyday Life.. poetic stuff.. reminds me of what you’re doing. Check it out from the library if you haven’t already spent time with it!

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