Throughout the rainy season, the sun remained hidden for weeks. It was veiled by a thick, uniform haze that even the moonlight could not penetrate.
-Carmen
The massive, dark winter clouds shift and reshape themselves in a sinister way, as if each one were trying to find a spot previously assigned to it in a large battlefield that, instead of lying under my feet, looms ominously over my head.
Once this exercise concludes, the sky appears as if a single gigantic cloud covers the entire planet. This dense, threatening cloud hanging above, is impervious to the light that shines exultantly above it. The light relentlessly attempts, yet fails, to find a gap to shine down on me, to bring a smile to my face and to set my heart on fire.
I sense that the compact cloud is gradually moving closer, attempting to smother me and engulf me in a vast gloom. Then it seems like the gates of heaven are on the brink of bursting open, and I worry I will be drowned in another universal flood.
Yet, it doesn't rain. The sole purpose of this pointless game is to block the sunlight. The clouds threaten but never strike. They behave like adults playing to be cruel children.
I enjoy sunny days, but I also appreciate the rain. There is something romantic and enchanting about the rain. It calms my temper, eases my nerves, and cools the inner fire burning with unsatisfied desires, dangerous aspirations, and unfulfilled dreams. The sound of the rain, whether it’s furiously pelting the window or softly flowing against it, brings to my mind images of peaceful places.
I imagine a little cabin nestled in a valley or atop a mountain, where I could spend my days reading and writing, feeling the warmth of the fireplace, listening to the birds sing, hearing the breeze rustling through the treetops and the water trickling over the pebbles in the creek, all in the company of the woman I love.
What I truly dislike are those dreary, overcast winter days filled with clouds that serve no purpose, except to cloud the sky. Occasionally they linger for weeks at a time. Weeks of meaningless grey skies. It’s as if the sky is unwilling to express its anger through the tears of rain. This concentration and display of energy, for no apparent reason, is wasteful. It shows that even nature can be frivolous and squandering.
Leaning against the window with my elbows on the sill and my fists pressed against my cheeks, I glance upward again at that heavy canopy that seems to extend beyond the edge of the world, likely remaining there far longer than I can endure. In that moment I feel my entire being begin to collapse under the overwhelming weight of the oppressive sky.
©Translated from the Spanish by William Almonte Jiménez, 2011
© Spanish title: “Winter Blues”
© William Almonte Jiménez, 1998
