Hysteric

I sat in a chair and looked out the window; it was raining, as it always is. It was a song with an inconsistent melody that the rain chanted; I use to like the song and listen to it and find peace. I watched the petals of the daisies in the flower box outside the window be beaten by the raindrops and a few wilted under the pressure of the building water. What used to be beautiful and produce love in my chest was now wilting and collapsing from inevitable circumstances of weather.

Watching this happen brought about a sadness. It was a childlike, raw sadness that was rooted in complete selfishness, the type of sad that can only be displayed in fits of anger. I opened the window and pulled the daisies from the flower box and threw them down three stories. They fell in slow motion and the moment they left my fingers, I missed them. It was all of a sudden difficult to watch the soil and flowers disperse on the concrete, still being drowned by the rain. I wanted to run to them and pick them up and attempt to replant the daisies in the flower box, but I knew they would never grow the same. The box looked naked and remnants of the late flowers roots poked out of the dirt. Where there once were tiny white flowers, there now was just the broken stem.

My fingers were frozen and covered in soil, more mud, and this I didn't care about because I half stood and half sat there with my hands still in the flower box, my head resting on my forearms. My emotions imitated my body's numbness, stinging. I sat like this for a minute before pulling myself back through the window, a waterfall of dirt and rain following me onto the wood floors before I finally closed the window. Sitting back down where I was originally seated, entwining my dirty hands around my knees, I returned back to looking outside. Then the rain subsided.  

My Own Photo