Wet paper

Dear Friend of my heart.

A yellow paper boat floats into my world, across time, I gasp and laugh a little. It reminds me of the papers my father used to get us. I wrote on those. I wrote so much on those yellow pages. I sit on the roadside, it is raining. Someone took my umbrella from outside the city library. It made me feel sad. Why did they steal my umbrella? I sit on the roadside listening to a lecture on Kant’s ethics, it pours. So many drops, my knees are wet. My bag is wet. My notebooks, I don’t know. Maybe they’re wet too and all those words smudged into ghosts, and I will look at my notebooks and not feel sad. I lost all those yellow pages to time. I can bear to lose these new notebooks. They are mostly forlorn, these new notebooks. Maybe the rain will wash the sadness off those pages and I will simply forget the sense of loss that haunts me. I will forget to remember, and in the happy oblivion of complete presence, I will not think, just listen to the rain, and feel the drops on my skin. The yellow boat floats away. I am not sad.

Yours in the rain,

Prashant