Another lonely day . . . another detested, rainy day that has come and near past. The people of blue watched me closely all day and have erudite new levels of my pertinacity, to deceive them. The events of my day were innocuous, thoughtless pacing, steady breathing, the occasional imbibing of water, and the sport of staring at the rain, with the most virulent of expressions. Thus thoroughly boring my onlookers for they could no longer write in their petty little books how one might go about to enervate my soul. At high noon however, I paused in my pacing, the blood fleeing my veins, and once vagary thoughts, vanished. I caught my breath and hurried towards my room. From the vacuity of my mind, elicited forth a most baleful statement, of which I would have entrusted my life. Women always seemed to have something bothering them, making them sad. Well, I believe that their sadness is the cause of all this wretched rain. That’s right! Call me mad if you dare. But soon my sedulous efforts will prove to be victorious, or possibly my efficacious desires will be sufficient enough. I admit, sometimes this depraved equanimity confines me to the point of which my ravings become arcane. Fear not people of blue, for my recondite theories should not be deleterious. Scrawling across my white board, my theory took shape. I then was exhausted and laid down to rest. I awoke to the people of blues’ voices chattering outside my chamber. From the gist of their conversation, I was the central topic. I feigned sleep when one peeked in to see if I were awake. After I made sure they had dispersed from the vicinity, I stole away from the building and took an innocuous little walk. Passing by terrible places with utterly, boring common names such as Starbucks, Dunkin Doughnuts, and other such horrible places, I found my destination. It was in the old town park, was I used to play in my childhood. My wife sat on one of the few benches with an umbrella, a smile playing on her lips. Beckoning towards me with her finger, I shuffled over and sat down.
“Dearest” said she “why are you out on a night such as this, with no proper coverings? Here now, your clothes are all imbued with so much rain water. What has made you come here in the first place? You know the doctors are worried about you.”
“Rubbish, I know very well what false assuages they’ll test on me.”
“Listen to the whole first, dear. They tell me that you come here regularly at odd hours of the night. Your scribbling all over the walls at the clinic and you’re shouting baneful ramblings that appear to come from nowhere. They say that this new state has you all confused, that maybe we should return home for a while. They even offered to send specialized nurses to observe and take care of you while you are visiting home.”
“I don’t need the people of blue at my house, trying to enervate my theory further!”
“Ah yes, pray tell me what is your theory darling?”
“It’s merely that all women possess the power to make it rain when they become sorrowful. It’s quite accurate if you ask me . . .
“Mr. Wicket, here you are. I thought you had run away for good. Come along now. Neither the torrential rain nor solitude can be of any help to you.”
“I am talking to my wife. Can’t you see?”
“Mr. Wicket, your wife is dead. Don’t you remember going to her funeral last spring?”

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 16.04.2010

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