When It Rains Over The Paradise Island

A bluish hue engulfed the night into a sort of dreamy madness, droplets of rain camouflaging the world outside.  If I could paint a picture, the world outside is a mishmash of  anachronistic architecture, ramshackle houses and moribund looking cars, all soaking in the rain.  But it’s quiet outside, at that time of the night.  It fills me with a sort of longing, while the storm fixes what’s wrong into right.  It makes me wonder, we never did justice to this sight.  Where once stood a blooming, coalescing forest with all its bustling life forms, in its stead now stand erect, bleak houses with depressed islanders inside of them.

Dawn is nearly upon us but the sun stays hidden in the smog.  A thin veil of grey is hovering above us, while the birds stay put in their nests.  They would normally welcome the early rays of sunlight with their mellifluous chirps, but only their high-pitched whispers can be heard in the blur.  Soon, the sounds of human activity overtake the pristine sounds of nature, a dreary monotonous affair juxtaposed with the innocence of the first thrushes taking flight.  Vehicles line up astride congested highways, filtering the unsullied morning air with their poisonous releases.

Throngs of schoolchildren assemble at the bus stops, huddling underneath umbrellas and piercing through blocks of people to seek refuge under the awning.  Workers from all walks of life approach the shelters cautiously, dismayed that the buses are overcrowded and they will yet again be late for work.  The rain doesn’t care about them, it continues to pour in sheets, cleansing the earth of its humanly sins.  Nearby, the scent of freshly baked bread and lamentable pastiches of french pastries coax the first customers into the shops.  The world has finally awakened, and both the natural and the unnatural extremes collide, in a distorted symphony.

Fresh tea sluices down our throats and jolts us with the vigor needed to face the world, on the paradise island.  Those on the coast bear witness to gargantuan waves pummeling against the ridges, the ocean revolting against the monotony.  Usually, the turquoise water beckons the first swimmers with its flirty glimmer, but not today.  Today, it rages, it vents against the boredom of normalcy.  Even so, two rebellious souls are loping along the beach, invigorated by the sight of renegade chasms, curious about the promise of their violence.

The girl is wearing a black long-sleeved shirt and skinny jeans with its cuffs falling nicely atop her sneakers.  The boy is wearing a loose shirt and camo pants, his windswept hair giving him a ruffled look.  They’re sitting side by side underneath a rock overhang.  She passes him the bottle of rum that she has been sipping from and he nods with a smile.  While these two are contemplating the demented ocean, everyone else is swept by the current of their daily routine.  ”To fail the routine is to fail yourself, that’s what they tell you,” she tells him.  He leans over to kiss her then, because he has to.

The day ends just like it began, a sullen downpour pocked by the unfaltering routine, wasted by the ungrateful.