Some nights when the rain rolls in along old Lake Erie and pitter patters against my windowsill, I like to turn out the lights and turn off the music and just lie in the middle of the floor. I set my wallet, keys, and glasses at my side, and just stare up into the ceiling. In the dark, it’s like looking into the void. Sometimes whole minutes pass as I listen to the sound of water plicking against the trees and ground. Usually, hours pass.
How strange it feels, as if with every drop, a little piece of my physical self is etched away. My body absolved and then simplified into my mind—my thoughts become clear and bright. Occasionally a car sputters along the wet asphalt, and even that becomes a part of the aesthetic. Soon, I’m very sure that I’m not really lying on the floor in my room at all, but existing in the space between the rain drops.
I find peace in the space between rain drops.
Sometimes when I reach a state of bliss in all this natural splendor of the soul, I wonder in my selfless frame of being, why man spends so much time suffering in all our born days, when bliss exists in the space between all the things we count on for comfort—in the void. But maybe it’s just our karma, that eons ago we were doomed to live out nightmare days in our bodies, not knowing that what we find with our minds and hearts sustain us more than any material things. Maybe lasting happiness is just what we find in these voids, what our souls remember
A distant grumble of thunder marks the departing of the storm, and the rain subsides. I sit up and look around. It feels as if I had been out in the rain itself, as though the water droplets had washed my soul clean.