Rain On My Shoes

The streets were covered in mud, and while thinking of poetry I lightened my cigarette. I was wet, cold and not particularly in a good mood. Another lonely Wednesday, I said to myself, but bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow there’ll be sun.  I laughed of my own sarcasm and felt lonelier than before. So, back to the poetry, I thought.

Apparently what worried me so bad about poetry was my inevitable lack of inspiration. For months I had looked for it everywhere, even in the most remote places, but in vain. Nothing seemed to impress me anymore. Not the bad weather, not the earthquakes, not the food crisis, not even crime, which now was increasing its numbers day after day.

I felt pity for myself and that was it. However, I was walking on a muddy street and my mind was wondering over trivial and pathetic issues, but it was there, on a very specific moment when my eyes caught something that looked particularly out of place. It was something that appeared to be a piece of yellowish paper. I picked it up, rather disgusted since it was covered in mud and who knows what other sort of things. There was something written on it, with a beautiful and very extravagant hand writing.

The paper said the following:

“Inspiration: the act of inhaling; the drawing in of air, as in breathing.”

My head started to spin, and I could hear no sound at all. The cigarette fell of my hand and I started to feel very cold. Everything seemed deeply intense. The taste of tobacco in my mouth, and your scent on my hair and my clothing, the colors which my eyes could perceive in such a sharp way, the air coming in and out through my nose, slowly, lost melodies,  the sadness and the pain, the love; but most of all, rain on my shoes, chilling my feet.