It’s a rainy week in Paris, but inside of a place called home there is no raindrop to witness. Comparing to London, Paris wouldn’t be any melancholic city, rather the sun that sometimes plays hide and seek makes pedestrians appreciate of the bisous that sun gives them on their cheek. Everyday there is a sun on the sky, so everyday is sunny day. Just that some days it is hiding behind the clouds to tease bisous.
I divided the world into two; maybe one public and the other private. Maybe one of emotional heart and the other of rational brain. Maybe us and them, or more accurately, I and you. I am here and you are there, as we are away. Paris and the sun play this awayness. And I found myself between the two; I found myself in the rain. I found myself in the very relations that I form in part.
There comes a feeling that one wants to be disappeared among many others. Not nostalgic nor sad, but disconnecting from all emotional dependencies and expectations towards futuristic possibilities. But it’s not possible until I create an illusion that I’m away from any of those, but I was never here or there. I want to be away from awayless, as I realised. Simply I cannot be disappeared but forge myself the connections I’ve already made. These connections are tangible as a corner stone, and I reside in the house where the wall was built by those stones.
Perhaps I found my home on an unstable ground. Perhaps I’m rushing to build a solid house where the foundation is muddy. This rain makes the ground even more muddy than ever before. But feeling satisfied and happy in a place called home with someone I appreciate, I forget to see those raindrops pouring behind the windows. It’s as a slow motion movie happening on the screen, and internalising problems slips away from through the screen.
Still the rain sounds melancholic:
I’m hugged on the sofa, laying down leaning back. I hear kiss whenever sun puts his head out from cloud edge. I hear cracking sounds of my ankle whenever I stand up. I hear groaning sigh from neighbours. Among all these distractive sounds, I’m laying back hugged on the sofa. Being happy, and the same time terrified that soon the rain will stop, and I need to walk away to the world of illusion. Home is where one feels the security, and the security is felt stronger when the outside world is further destructive.
It is interesting to think then, as in the movie Melancholia demonstrated at its last scene, we build home for emotional safety, but still is left vulnerable of coming comet of destruction. This safety house doesn’t have a window to protect the rain, the sun, or the neighbours. But I could remain holding hands till the last moment of comet approaching. I want to flee to home, to the sofa, into the arms. But I guess the world isn’t bad at all at last.
Still I find myself laying down until late on the sofa resisting to prepare for the morning. It’s not because of laziness, rather thanks to delightful relaxation.