The monsoons bring on this languorous need to sway with the breezes, to dream the with the raindrops that slither down the windowpane. The air is soft and personal, the sky reaching closer in its shades of gray. The heat, the humidity, the unbearable anticipation of the rain – the sheer relief when it finally comes down, washing away the sins of the past, uncaring of the devastation it leaves behind.
And the green. The lush new growth, pushing forth as if it will never stop painting the world with its tiny tendrils. Demanding space, yet, delicate enough to be trampled in the next surge of living. Plentiful enough to be sure of itself, its place in the world.
Life itself manifests in the monsoon. Raw. Tender. Vigorous. Unclean. Washed. Covered. Stripped. Rotting. Sprouting. Reaping. Surging. Slowing. Searching. Paths. Breathless. Breathtaking.