The rain was coming down heavily outside. My view in the window showed people below running the blocks of the city in hope of escaping the merciless downpour. Some were better off in rain boots, coats and umbrellas, while others seemed much more fragile and vulnerable without proper gear. There was one person who was not running. He did not have an umbrella. He let the water falling from the sky soak him through, he did not fight the rain; he accepted it.
I marveled at the rain while lying in bed, covered in my down blanket, wearing fuzzy wool socks, my feet on the radiator, and a mug of hot chocolate in my hand. The book I was reading was resting in my lap while I philosophized about the concept of rain and its victims.
I felt water on my cheek. I touched to see what it was, wondering if it was sweat I did not feel, or a tear I did not remember shedding. I heard another drop… then another one… and another one… drip...drip…drip. The ceiling was leaking. I got out of bed and tried to figure out what I could do to stop the leaking. I tried to find a bucket to catch the water. As I walked around the room, the rain was breaking through more and more of the ceiling, as if eating it alive. I surrendered to the leak. I stopped holding my hands over my head looking like a complete retard attempting to shield my frail body that was shivering by now.
A few hours later, the ceiling was covered in large ugly stains. The water was still dripping. I was stuck. The pieces of paint started falling. I opened the cupboard to put on a dry change of clothes. The shelf had broken, bringing the rest of the closet down with it. My room was falling apart on me. I was helplessly searching for a way to save the situation. I needed to get my room back. If I was not going to have my room, what would I have? Where would I go? What would belong to me. I took responsibility for the mess and tried without success to mend the broken pieces.
I stood by the door, unsure of what decision to make. If I left the room, I would give up all I ever owned. If I stayed, I would have to deal with the package. I noticed a plaque on the door, which I never saw before. It was rusty, I had to scratch at the gunk that had built up to read the inscription. "This room belongs to him and not to you."
That sign gave me such relief. The mess was not mine after all. I did not have to spend my life figuring out problems that weren't mine. I had to go find my own room, my own place, perhaps my own mess. I needed to work with something that was my own.
As if a heavy weight had been lifted from my shoulders, I swung the door open, walked out and ran as fast as I could. I was not concerned. I did not have to work that out. Whoever the "he" was from the plaque, the "he" to whom the room belonged to would have to sort out the issues. I was a free person, free of troubles that were not my own.
I ran through the journey of self-discovery searching for a room that was my own, sure of the fact that clarity would bring my salvation. I ran perhaps too quickly. I reached the end of the mountain. I was standing at the edge of a cliff. Beyond I could not go for the drop was too deep. I stood there and I asked myself: "What next?"
