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copyright 2001, Kevin Weir
When the Rain Changed
For every second that a raindrop falls, thousands repeat it. After the riots one day the rain decided instead of putting the prisoners to sleep with its gentle flow of taps, it would release all it has at once. A thick layer of glassy waved water from above roaring down. If there is any thunder, no one can hear it the falling lake is blocking all sounds from the sky. And at any second if that crazy lightning may strike, the reflection and magnification would blind the hunting owl and clear everyone from where they lay sleeping. Shatter sight and break trees. Just wait until the ocean hits. Explosions of water all at once, desolation because of a foolish cloud.
The conditions of the hall were only noticed by the late working cleaners and the lights, which had to glow all day at the floors. A green old tint and gloomy gray common shade against the walls and four windows with natural light filtered threw clouds. Dusty air and echoes of sharp heels vibrate the titles beneath the walkerís feet. About twelve steps down from the pick pocket's cell, right next to the man with no hands and razor blades for eyes there is the cell of him. He was the one who dreamed of a mass exit from his mind from his life, enemies and misunderstanding. Life's confusion really racked him and he didn't like the taste of water or milk. On his door, next to the knob an axe with the handle being a spine is drawn. With black crayon it is detailed to the edges, and smaller than an index finger. Time doesn't exist in the mind of a man where there is nothing true to care about. The only changes exist in the rise and fall of a sun he can never see and the tears of a beautiful woman he begins to forget like the sound of his favorite bird.
Itís been about three days since he stopped thinking about how hard the floor was. His mind was consumed with why things happen and why and where knives are in the hearts of the hated. Or when his eyes will bleed from not blinking, or if his face will ever hurt from not smiling in years. It wouldnít be the first time his eyes bled, no. One sleepless week he got lost in an on going dream he has he likes to call the exodus, stuck in the woods rather than a hallway of insanity. There are wonderful trees and refreshing smells and life. Still though all these things come to him and still he pulls the stone of negativity, drags it up the mountain of memory and takes a gets blinded by the sun of regret and risk. During this dream of where his thoughts continues he wipes his eyes with two fingers, and through the wound of light from the door he creates images on the wall with the blood, writes the word "happiness" and "immortal with love" and "desert where are you?"
The decision comes to him every now and then and he plays it in his mind like a piano. The man, who screams under the crack of the door in the next cell over, he cries and laughs at the same time. Think about it, you can feel it in your lungs right now, the volume makes your stomach shake and the muscles above your ears tighten. There may be people standing next to you, so you wonít do it. But all through the whole and mostly into the night he screams and cries into the hall. His throat wonít break, because the sweat from his forehead puddles under his face and out of the room. He thinks about that mostly and watches it escape. One or two tears go with it and the loudest scream of all can be heard when the cleaners mop up what has created a river in his eye. "Why did you take what is mine? You destroyed the wonderful view of the sun, it reflected in my creek. I call the creek the ice creek, because it reminds me of a creek with ice."
The man, who dreamed of exodus, listens and types it in his head and adds in the dots and commas when he hears it. He canít decide to care at the moment, the keys on his piano are broken. The decision plays a rusted violin under the water of his thoughts trapped under a frozen lake he attempts to escape it.