Too late in the wrong rain

It's only in the afternoon but it's already dim outside. This is the cruellest time of the day. The moments when there seems to be a crazy battle between life and death, between hope and fear, between new and old, between heaven and hell. Maybe because as a mortal I have to realize time and again how temporary I am, how unabiding nature is, how fleeting my plans are?

If it only could stay like this. I could live with it. But that's not the case. Rain is ticking like a downcast miner on the cold earth, wind is blowing as from weathered bellows past the old clouds.

And I? In my second-hand Toyota I drive on a narrow road through a shadowy forest. If it had been dry and bright I would have seen the coloured trees. Ranging from sunflower yellow to wine red. What I notice today. How sorrowful the trees are huddled along the roadside. As football supporters who have to watch passively how their favourite club loses.

This season is bleak and harsh. I hardly have the opportunity to catch my breath during these months. The only thing left is working, eating, resting and sleeping. Which means I end up sleeping upstanding more than walking upright in my own little world. In my stuffy room full of lamentations and self-pity.

However, it doesn't mean that I have no ideas about how my life should look like. I do have beautiful thoughts about relationships, work, money and wisdom. I certainly contemplate heroism and self-sacrifice. And sometimes when I'm in my own house and comforting music floats through the room, I can almost touch my dreams. If only I was able to break down the solid walls, if only I could climb the high mountains.

But once I open my eyes again, I immediately realize that I will never succeed in my quest to happiness and euphoria. I touch my hands, can they break down sturdy walls? I look at my legs, are they able to jump over steep mountains?

The shabby Japanese car is suddenly pushed to the right. And at the same time pulled to the left. With all my might, I try to correct the vehicle to make it reach the middle of the road again. The wheels are slipping, the car is sliding away. I barely manage not to end up on the roadside. Although I desperately try to keep a line as straight as possible, the vehicle is shaken back and forth.

And just when I sigh of relief because the tires seem to have grip again, because the car finds its way again, the vehicle slips off the muddy road and comes to a halt against a tree with a dull bang.

Too dazed to figure out what's going on, I can only see the rain pouring of the windshields, I can only hear the wind roar, I can only feel the car shaking, I can only smell the smell of burnt rubber. I remain subdued like the silence between two lightning bolts, I endure to be clammed up like the perfect rain drop.

I know it can't be possible. But I still I search on my cell phone for the roadside assistance number. Am I hoping for a miracle? Do I expect a higher power to intervene? Like water from rocks, like the lame can walk? Do I contemplate someone who comes to rescue me from this plight, who will save me from this impasse?

Anyone who will save me, but surely not the roadside assistance. In the middle of this wilderness, in the heart of this desolation, there is no service. Can it more be more appropriate?

How long I have been waiting in the car? Hoping for what? Or better, hoping for who? Because that's how it goes. The rain is getting more merciless with every minute, the wind is blowing more unrelenting with every count, my life is appearing more insignificant with every lightning flash.

When I lastly get out of my cocoon. When finally the wind hits my face, when eventually the rain blows my body. Surprisingly, I seem to recover, I seem to wake up. As if the ice-cold water washes away the patience, as if the sharp wind blows away the anesthesia. I come to life as a bolt from the blue.