faucet

Water drips

 

silence

 

tat-tat-tat

 

silence

 

The day goes away, lost in the endless dripping, the sun is blotted, the slow rain from the kitchen faucet echoes in my ears, flowing steadily through my head.

 

I open my eyes to see the soft glow of light behind battered cream curtains.  My eyelids flicker uncontrollalby at the entrance of the stranger, something awakens inside my chest.  

 

tat-tat-tat

 

Who am I?

 

Who are we?

 

Why must I do what I do, what is there to hold me up, what is there to keep me from falling, where has the light gone.

 

tat-tat-tat

 

The dripping churns through my being.  I must stay.  I must be.  I must stay and be.  I cannot leave.

 

No. Never. 

 

tat-tat-tat

 

Moisture wells in these eyes.  It is an unbidden act, and this face strains against the startling mutiny.

 

The moisture forms to delicate drops as the crevices of the eyes fill and overflow creating streams that run swiftly down onto cheeks.  Some catch on lips, others roll further to chin, a hand rises hesitantly to feel the wetness.

 

A faint saltiness fills the mouth, and the hand falls down before the face.  A pool rests in a rounded cup formed by fingers and thumb.

 

tat-tat-tat

 

It is expected of me, expectation is holding me back from the edge, but I inch forward as my eyes escape.

 

A murky reflection is in the palm sized pool, but it is too dark to see.

 

tat-tat-tat

 

The faucet drips, and it dulls the mind, the need to find, to search, to look at the picture in the tears.  The sound holds gently, filling soul and heart with reassuring whispers.  The unwanted streams dry up, and the springs from which they came are quenched.  The moment of rebellion will be forgotten and swallowed in the...

 

tat-tat-tat

 

Eyes begin to close to the light, then what was awakened is heard breaking through layers that have come to encircle my mind.

 

Layers of entanglement, layers upon layers of the soft controlled dripping, and through half shut eyes I watch the the water drip from the faucet and I see inside each drop a picture of  what is expected of me, expectations crafted and formed carefully through the eyes of others, through the endless stream of pictures and words that are ingested at societies bidding, bowing under the drip as to God.

 

I have tightened that rust-worn metal handle till hands are raw, where blood once dried now sit deep leathery calluses, but the calluses are unworn.  For I have staunched the flow.  All that's left is the drip, and the drip... it only comforts me.

 

tat-tat-tat

 

Yes.  It's just a drip.  I have done what I can.  It no longer floods from the faucet like it once did.

 

The warmth of the light now turns to a searing burning force, and the pool of tears that held the immensity of a realization is released to fall innocently to the ground, without a sound, drowned out by the...

 

tat-tat-tat

 

The brilliant glow bursting in from the beyond the curtain falls now on closed eyes.  It is forgotten quickly, and soon hands feel the face in question.

 

Why is there a moist stickiness on my cheeks?

 

Why does a bit of salt invade my lips?

 

I step back from the ledge.  I'm safe here.  In the expectation.  Why go to the ledge?

 

I cover my eyes.  Shielding myself from the harshness of the light.  Blocking it out.  I'll have to get some better curtains.  I don't want any of the light getting in.

 

tat-tat-tat