Thought Overflow

It’s 8:35 am on an overcast morning in the summer—the kind of morning in which the grey clouds are greeted by the grey smoke rising out of the embers of burnt garbage nearby. Almost half of June has gone already, and I wonder when the change will come. I am parched, like the earth, from heat and dryness. Please let it rain, so I can stand by the window, curtains drawn, and stare outside, instead of finding the darkest, coolest room and burying myself in it.

Change. Like a bleeding-heart romantic, I make the analogy between change in the weather to change in myself. It may be wishful thinking, of course, because there’s so much about me I want to change. What if I remain, forever, like I am—wretched, to borrow a word from Mr Dickens. How strange change is … we fear it sometimes, most of us. And yet, at other times, it’s our only escape.