By Toby Salamon

Drops of rain blur vision and slur the chorus of car horns and angry men. One man attempts to maintain a steady rhythm of his fingertip against the outer edge of his steering wheel, only to be interrupted by the occasional thump of a large raindrop, wincing each time the inevitable noise occurs. Inside the car, his skin and clothes are dry and warm, yet his mind is swimming. Swimming, weighed down by the burdens which befell it in times passed, towards a goal it can not quite grasp. And so, trapped and confused, the mind converts its energy to anger. Anger at the world. Anger at the self. In doing so, the mind is no longer carrying forth its burden, tricking itself into believing said weight has simply vanished. This feeling does not last long. However lost this man is, however, consumed in his anger and deceit, and convinced of his misfortune such that he can see none else, instinct prevails. The mind knows that it no longer swims. It is drowning.

The man’s eyes burst open. A once slurred chorus of horns now reaches him quite clearly, prompting him to continue on down the lengthy portion of highway ahead of him. The man drives, and the chorus is once again drowned out by the falling rain. The car is stiflingly hot. It’s the kind of inescapable heat which holds itself in an all consuming suspension when there’s nowhere left to go. “Fuck me,” whispers the man to the mind.

Nothing happens. For a long time the man stares out the window of his run-down Chevy, with his eyes focused on the drops of rain which stick to the glass, rolling slowly downwards, like a tear unwiped for fear of being forgotten. Blurring out all else and focusing on a single droplet, the man catches sight of the inescapable. Someone stares back from the drop. Wrinkles flow through this man’s face, rippling as time races past. He wears a scraggly blue collared shirt, unironed for weeks on end, with a missing top button. His downtrodden features are amplified by inch-thick spectacles, punctuating his bloodshot, sullen eyes. His lips are too big. His eyes too small. His ears too pointy. “Just a lil’ goofy,” whispers the man, and he snickers softly to himself. 

The goofy old man stares at the drop of rain fixed to his window. He is used to this activity by now. As a young boy, the man would take long road trips with his mother and father, all around the Great White North. Up and down the map they would go, rumbling their way through the Shield, blistering through the Plains, and sloshing through the Cordillera. It was there, in those boggy slopes and flats of the Western Cordillera, that the man had grown accustomed to the relentless beating of the rain. He would stare out of his very own backseat window waiting for the bombardment to stop, too focused on this goal of his to recognise the intense humidity surrounding him. And so a boy would sit and stare. And wait. And for his efforts and patience, if he was lucky that night didn’t fall too fast, be rewarded with a sunlit band of fantastic colour, streaking across the sky. However many times these marvels would occur, the boy would be in awe of them. “David,” his mother would cry. “David, it’s time for dinner! Come inside. Now, sweety!” But David wouldn’t listen. He was always intent on admiring these phenomena till’ the very last seconds he possibly could, just waiting for –

HONK!

David’s eyes burst open. His whole body leaping to attention, he jerks his car forward before slamming on the brakes. The drop of rain, which seemed so fixed and so frozen, now flies off into the mass of water droplets surrounding it. The chorus of horns, devoid of all melody and filled with metallic derision, once again bombards David. Taking an instinctual glance out of his passenger window before making his inevitable escape, away from the angry men and towards the dark, looming city skyline, he notices something. To start, his eyes fall upon just a little green. A change from all the dreary greys and grays. And then a lake. And some birds diving into that lake. And a stream, trickling its way down from the overfilled highway, making its way into the greater body. The man gazes over this array of natural beauty, picturesque despite the efforts of the rain. And back at the dreary path ahead of him. And forth. And back. And forth. David makes a decision.

A door opens. A step outside. The horns intensify. Another step. And another. Now the chorus is backed with screams of frustration. Yet its sound somehow grows weaker. Three more steps. David stands at the edge of the highway, the intersection of what is natural and what is not. Those parts of him which were once dry and warm are now cool and wet. The sounds of helpless commuters dwindle and fade as he steps onto the grassy expanse. Pacing forwards, David tilts his chin up towards the sky, closes his eyes, and smiles at the rain as it caresses his body and soul. His arms extend on both sides, in acceptance. Opening his mouth, David takes a patient drink, as the storm provides. No longer is he antagonised by a continual barrage, but rather he accepts the rain as none more than a presence of that which gives life. The water envelopes him. Allowing as such, David accepts his fate. The mind, drowning as it may be, takes a look around in its relaxed state. Nothing but more and more water surrounds it. No goals to feebly grasp at. No land to swim towards. Nothing. No longer exists the contrast between that which swims and that which drowns. The mind sinks and is content.