Raindrops on My Roof

I remember lying there, in the half empty room that was once so full of endless memories. From those hanging posters on the wall to each loose pen and pencil in the room, they all used to mean something to me. I remember those nights where I’d lay back in the soft comfort of my bed staring up at the empty, open canvas I call my ceiling. I remember each night I’d dream of the day gone through, dreaming of better endings, and a better life. And I also remember those nights when I thought that this was the end of the road, only to come back and realize I’ve still got a long journey in front of me, not even started yet. I remember those nights when I’d lay back, listening to nothing else but the sound of raindrops falling and hitting my roof, making an unconscious rhythm that never seem to fade away even if the rain has stopped. Now I would remember all of those nights, during the time where I finally realized what I am to do with my life…for the moment.
The rhythm of the rain used to be the one rhythm that no matter how hard I try to fight, it would always brings tears into my eyes. They could be tears of loneliness, confusion, or happiness and gratitude. There were way too many rain storms in my life to count, but every time they came, it was like the locked up portions of my heart unwillingly opened itself up, letting everything ever hidden inside to just burst out in forms of those clear little drops worth a million. From each rain storm, I’d learn a little bit more about myself, and I’d learn a little bit more about the world around me.

I learned that…

Whenever you cry, thinking that everything is over and you’ve made the biggest mistake in the world, things will always turn out okay and that they are not as bad as they seem. Sure for someone my age, fifteen living in a foreign country, speaking a foreign art form, everything will seem so bad and so frightening. But things are different, and a sense of fairness still lives within this corrupted world, somewhere. The storm may be here now, the storm may be powerful and seem to destroy anyone and anything in its path, but the storm won’t last forever. A person has a hundred years to live, and in those hundred years, many, many things will happen that are beyond their imagination, no matter how vivid the mind is. In those one hundred years, the storm will start, and the storm will pass. After all, ever since the beginning of time, no world crisis as in war or storms lasts anywhere close to a hundred years.

Whenever you give up on the world, thinking it has left you far behind, leaving you still choking on its trail of dust, you’ve been wrong all this time. The world has never left you; the world was never leaving in the first place. The world stands still, serving as merely a game board for the man who walks the Earth to shape their own lives themselves. Each precious, irreplaceable diamond that fall from your eyes, they’re proof that you’re still living, and they’re proof that you’re still going. Kind of like those times back in the little sandboxes, you’d trip and fall over your own clumsy two feet, but then get back up again like nothing happened. There’s still a scar somewhere on your knee, your elbow, somewhere on you showing to your mother or father that you had fallen once, but then look at you, you’re running and playing again. Those times are just like that hardships you face now. Each time you’re stopped dead in your track with some obstacle, it’s just like you have fallen in the sandbox. No matter how hard it may seem and how much you think you’ll never get back up, no matter what you’ll always somehow end up standing back up on your own two feet, even if you haven’t even noticed it.