Looking at the gray skies through permanently dirt-stained window, she thought “how fitting!”. Her mood perfectly mirrored what she saw, or was it the other way around? Her thoughts and feelings seemed to be as permanently stained as this window and as gray as the clouds.
What was it about this cloudy day that left such a foul aftertaste, she wondered. Had it always been this way? She began too look back. Far enough to peak into her youth. Back then, she used to love gray rainy days. She’d go on driving on the wet roads, aimlessly, for hours on end. She’d step out of her car and jump in puddles of water allowing the tiny drops to tickle her face and mess up her hair. She remembered inhaling the musty scent and listen to the sound of raindrops hitting the leaves, and the asphalt. She was young then. She must have been. Though she didn’t know it.
And now, she wasn’t. She felt old. Perhaps sometime later, down the road in a blink of an eye, more years would pass and she would once again realize that she’d been wrong. That she was still young when she began hating life.
Where did all this hate come from? Did she start hating life or was it life who turned its back on her first. It was difficult to tell. So much had happened. So much life. So much pain. She had done things, things that could not be undone. She had seen what could not be unseen. The hurt of it all, and the shame that she carried with her was weighing heavy on her fragile frame. It started as a benign tumor that had turned malignant – a parasite so deeply imbedded in her that to separate it, her very existence would come to an end.
She felt her soul. She did not believe in a soul, but she felt it was broken. She did not believe in a god, but she felt his absence. There she sat, unable to take her eyes off the permanently dirt-stained window. She was broken, she was damaged, and nothing could be done.