l’appel du vide

I can hear it; a light scratching noise.

It's only irrationally irritating and I go back to watching the rain fall.  

It's pretty; seamless as it cascades from grace. Lightly effervescent and chiding-wanting me to leave the warmth of my hearth and join its swanning charisma. I touch the glass and feel the coolness. How cold it must be up there- away from the heat of the malady that scourges the earth. 

The scratching is more persistent now. How dare this scratching interrupt my blissful, melancholic castle in the air? I shout and it retreats.

I cannot see the ground from where I lie. I bet the rain falls into it tenderly- like feathers onto a cloud.

The scratching has returned, although this time it's one single cruel profound scratch, going all the way down my door. I open the window to drown out the sound. The rain pitters heavenly the ground and I close my eyes.

I wish I could flow as freely as the rain. To euphorically curl through the night in recherche patterns and messages, enticing all who dare look up at the stars. 

The scratching has become a light rapping upon the door. I move closer to the window and try to ignore it. I stick my hand out to feel the rain. It's numbing. 

The rapping is now slowly draping across the door towards the door knob. I lean out the window and focus my energy on the celestial way the rain connects with the ground.

The rapping is now a light force slowly turning my doorknob. It has stolen my inner peace for now I fear. 

I want it back. I want to feel ethereally glorious again. I want to feel like the rain. I want to fall from the heavens and be welcomed by the earth angels. I want to fall gracefully and empyreally. I want to fall.    

The force now enters my room but I can no longer be it's prey for I am the rain now.

Cascading from above to the ground below.