Rain Writings

Perhaps I wrote this, inspired by the water drenched, gray windows I woke up to this morning. Or perhaps this was told to me, word for word, by someone I met in a doorway where no doorway should have been. I'll let you decided.

~*~

The fae be angry today.

Raindrops scatter against my window, racing each other t'wards a finish line only they can see. Together they paint over the outside world, leavin' me only witness whispers of the white capped waves just past the pane. It be better that way.

Safe inside, I wonder what 'tis that's riled the old ones so; throwing down dark clouds to smash against our world the way they do. We, too busy hiding inside 'neath our dry, warm blankets or scurryin' about 'neath muddy umbrella caps, aren't looking up. Let me tell you, it ain't no coincidence those plastic caps be shaped like mushrooms. No. We not meant to see the white wings flutterin' crazy like a hurricane's scream. An' our ears be formed so as not to know the gusts of wind for what they truly be, bellows of rage. So foolish we are, an' always have been.

What has happened, I wonder. Be it a rift in their court or a cut in the earth? Either one will set them stormin'; anger so hot in their blood the world must turn to icen mist less we all taste flames. They will settle, I be sure like the thousands wars afore this one. Without even a pinprick of awareness on our mortal skins o'course. Yet my heart can't help but lie with the cold, wrapped 'round the knowledge that, dagger like, our fates are held in their hands an' all lives could cease should they choose to continue this destruction.

Perhaps it be best we don't. Know the reason for the drops I mean. Human souls lack strength enough to bear the weight of such wild magic. We like our worlds to be packaged, bundled 'round safe beliefs an' ideals. We cling an' clasp to the concept of truth an' cannot grasp that what truth be lacking is existence. Our world is a spirit of a different sort. Chaos; unbridled an' entire. Truth be a false word.

The fae know this. The fae are this. Gallant are they for taken up their swords an' armor an' power to clash against each other, sos we do not 'ave to. They 'ave chosen to allow our shelter of lies to remain an' per'aps this be the greatest mystery of them all.

So I sit an' watch the raindrops glisten like flattened diamonds upon the glass. I be grateful for the wind gusts that sing to me only of air. Happy that the waves seem to bow by their will alone and not the sirens I know be lurking 'neath the blue. I turn from the shadows, for it be inside them that mine eyes will see other dark eyes of stone staring back. I don't want that an' you shouldn't neither. There be some myths that are meant to stay swirling in smoke.

~*~*~