Monotony

Rain, romance, books. Romance, books, rain. Books, rain, romance.

All the frivolity that my life has been made up of over the past few weeks. I look back at my posts, and I want to be really hard on myself for having done hardly any sensible or introspective writing. I can't really help it, though, while the rain still falls against the sunshades and the window panes, and the roads are slick with the wet.

The houses stand sullen and morose, peas in a pod, all wearing the same mask of disinterest. The windows are hung about with clothes that refuse to dry, or blocked by men and women in search of a strong signal so their mobile phone conversations can continue uninterrupted. One or two odd windows provide more interesting views, into dimly-lit drawing rooms with artistically arranged paintings on pale walls; this must be a house where a young man in his mid-twenties lives alone, playing the violin and the piano, mourning a lost love, seeking comfort in the dull glow of unenthusiastic yellow lamps.

This isn't a day when you would possibly want to step out of your house. It is a day of ruined picnics. The grand plans to go out on the green and fly the growling little aeroplanes with mean-sounding engines have doubtless been scuppered by the unforeseen rain. The grass will not be strewn about with hampers and sheets, the workers will not go around in conical yellow and red hats, the couple in love will not walk, hands intertwined, lost in thought. The skies are heavy and dull with pain, they weep miserably, with the kind of anguish that pours forth without reason- you know how you cry sometimes, not knowing why you do, and it takes but a moment for you to be able to laugh again. The strange play of thoughts and moods.

Your eyes are heavy and drooping with sleep, but you're sleepless. The clothes on the yellow, green and red poles outside are wet and dripping with carbon-flecked rainwater. You see no point in drawing them in, for they will only form sulphurous puddles on the freshly cleaned floor. The bags from last night's shopping are strewn about in unshapely bundles, but despite your fastidiousness you don't find it in you to get off the couch and put things in their place.

The light just grows dimmer as morning lengthens into afternoon, afternoon stretches its weary legs into evening, twilight, one without colours for a change, as the morose clouds continue to behave like unappeased, hormone-ruined teenagers. Then night, then Monday morning.

Oh, the monotony of it all!