It started at two a.m., when the hands of the clock reached out to the sky and pointed above
towards a looming cloud of gray that became my ceiling, was it then when the first teardrop fell.
At two a.m., tear droplets fell from the heavens. Of leaky faucets and ceaseless outpour, the
apartment above mine flooded my home with the rain of inconsolable tears. It started innocently as a few
water droplets that would slip through the barriers of wooden planks and aged shiplap. I reasoned it was
simply the pipes, but as the tears taunted me — falling upon my eyes and lips as I slept, keeping me
awake and tortured — did I realize the sensation was not of filthy pipe-water, but a filthiness that could
only be from the broken whisperings of another.
At two a.m. the pipes burst. At two a.m. it rained.
--
My first step to action was through a sole bucket. A futile attempt to collect the falling tears and
resign to peace, and as the vessel overflowed, it wasn’t enough to contain the weeping angel that dwelled
above.
By the time the millionth droplet had fallen, the tears had become a part of my everyday life; for
the sake of conservation, both for the environment and my water bill, I used this to my advantage. I used
the tears in my morning coffee, sipping on the scathing bitterness of burnt espresso as I consumed the
rain. Strangely, I felt consumed instead. I washed my dishes with the teardrops, and I showered, cleansed
my skin with sorrow, but these tears remained on my surface as tainted remarks of filth. I wash myself
clean, but feeling dirty in a manner I can’t truly describe. I wonder if the person above had a condition, a
condition of nonstop crying of sorrow, or of perhaps joy. Though, it usually never is the latter, and I find
out the answer through the solace soaking through the tips of my fingers, pruning soft, porcelain skin of
youth into wrinkled leather. The tears never seemed to cease, and as the puddles formed on the floor, I
walked from room to room with the audible splash of water following my every footstep. The tears follow
me, in sound and in movement — taunting my every action, haunting my every breath.
To combat the gray cloud that followed my every movement, I held an umbrella to bide my day in
peace. A shield from the poisons of burning teardrops that I feared would scathe my skin and blister open
scars that I’ve forcibly sewn back together. I hold my umbrella like armor, my body as a temple, but on
the days when the tears rained above with more fury and emotions than the last, I gripped the handle with
increasing uncertainty. My feet remain drowned in salt, and as the rain rushed down and the precipitation
fell, my apartment flooded. I saw my toes falling victim first to the numbness as a sacrifice, the same
wrinkled leather of my body showing signs of failure. As the rain poured down from above and bounced
off my umbrella, encapsulating me in a fountain of blue, I feared I was unable to tell whether I was
protecting myself or entrapping myself in a prison of these god-forsaken tears.
--
When the weight of the tears became far too much to handle, and my wrist became bruised and
battered with the devastation, was it then that I let go of my umbrella.
The moment I relieved my precious shield of its weary burdens, the waves surged. The tears that
once fell as small strings of saline beads and chaste, midnight whisperings, poured from above in sudden,
heavenly chaos — where angels reaped songs of sorrow, weeping in silent lullabies. The walls dispelled
as the torrent poured from above, and the teardrops rained an ocean, encroaching me with the
weightlessness that dispelled myself of my anguish — only for the slightest moment. The rain poured
unforgivingly as I drowned myself in tears, blending in with the blue of ocean's bitter embrace. As the
waves washed over my senses, there I was, lifeless and floating, drowning upon the salt that inflamed my
lungs and burned my eyes blinding me with the blue of earth. Deprived of sight, I sought penance to the
lord through gasps of air that came out in desperation, as a plea, and received only gaping bubbles that
responded in unheard, taunting prayers. Baptizing myself in the ocean that I prayed would diverge, part
into two and forge an escape. If God heard my prayers, he simply laughed, turning water into wine, and
the sea of blue washed red in front of my eyes. Alcohol seeped through my pores and burst through my
throat, reminiscent of forbidden apples and eternal sin — and damnation. Weightless, drowning, and
drunk, I remained blinded with the sounds of angels weeping in my ears and the teardrops that I once
consumed, consuming me with no utter remorse.
--
It is when I am drunk upon the tears of another that I reckon the sober truth. It takes just a few
knocks on the door above to heaven's gate to stop the madness, to stop the drowning, but I find myself
reluctant. This reluctance isn’t founded upon moral insensitivity or compassion for the tearful sojourner
who reigns above — I am no patron, nor am I a plaster saint of God, but rather, I am a coward. I fear what
lies behind the doors of the apartment above, and I fear that when I knock on the door, expecting to open
to an ocean of angels weeping the sorrows of sacrifice — I fear I'll simply find myself face to face with a
reflection of myself. A mirror of truth I am unwilling to seek, for I may find myself curled up in fetal
position, broken, mirrored sorrow glistening as shards of my reflection pierces my skin. Crying
outrageous tear droplets that drown beloved umbrellas and broken beings with the intoxication of sin and
repentance, lamenting unheard prayers and glass-scraped knees from where I beg for forgiveness.
Therefore, I force myself to remain unknowing, for I fear the truth will break me more than I have
been shattered. As I open the door of my apartment to surging waves, an ocean reminiscent of what was
once harmless teardrops, I continue to remain unknowing. Drowning in the tears of myself I refuse to
acknowledge. I refuse responsibility, instead I place blame on the heavens above. At two a.m., I remain
unknowing, awaiting the day the wave subsides, and the blue of earth opens to the luster of yellow
daylight.
At two a.m., I remain drowning.
Artist Statement: My writing is naturally very reflective of myself, and this piece, though fiction, is something that is founded from both my vulnerability and my fascination with the complexity of emotion. I wrote this for a school assignment and it has since reopened my love and joy for writing.
towards a looming cloud of gray that became my ceiling, was it then when the first teardrop fell.
At two a.m., tear droplets fell from the heavens. Of leaky faucets and ceaseless outpour, the
apartment above mine flooded my home with the rain of inconsolable tears. It started innocently as a few
water droplets that would slip through the barriers of wooden planks and aged shiplap. I reasoned it was
simply the pipes, but as the tears taunted me — falling upon my eyes and lips as I slept, keeping me
awake and tortured — did I realize the sensation was not of filthy pipe-water, but a filthiness that could
only be from the broken whisperings of another.
At two a.m. the pipes burst. At two a.m. it rained.
--
My first step to action was through a sole bucket. A futile attempt to collect the falling tears and
resign to peace, and as the vessel overflowed, it wasn’t enough to contain the weeping angel that dwelled
above.
By the time the millionth droplet had fallen, the tears had become a part of my everyday life; for
the sake of conservation, both for the environment and my water bill, I used this to my advantage. I used
the tears in my morning coffee, sipping on the scathing bitterness of burnt espresso as I consumed the
rain. Strangely, I felt consumed instead. I washed my dishes with the teardrops, and I showered, cleansed
my skin with sorrow, but these tears remained on my surface as tainted remarks of filth. I wash myself
clean, but feeling dirty in a manner I can’t truly describe. I wonder if the person above had a condition, a
condition of nonstop crying of sorrow, or of perhaps joy. Though, it usually never is the latter, and I find
out the answer through the solace soaking through the tips of my fingers, pruning soft, porcelain skin of
youth into wrinkled leather. The tears never seemed to cease, and as the puddles formed on the floor, I
walked from room to room with the audible splash of water following my every footstep. The tears follow
me, in sound and in movement — taunting my every action, haunting my every breath.
To combat the gray cloud that followed my every movement, I held an umbrella to bide my day in
peace. A shield from the poisons of burning teardrops that I feared would scathe my skin and blister open
scars that I’ve forcibly sewn back together. I hold my umbrella like armor, my body as a temple, but on
the days when the tears rained above with more fury and emotions than the last, I gripped the handle with
increasing uncertainty. My feet remain drowned in salt, and as the rain rushed down and the precipitation
fell, my apartment flooded. I saw my toes falling victim first to the numbness as a sacrifice, the same
wrinkled leather of my body showing signs of failure. As the rain poured down from above and bounced
off my umbrella, encapsulating me in a fountain of blue, I feared I was unable to tell whether I was
protecting myself or entrapping myself in a prison of these god-forsaken tears.
--
When the weight of the tears became far too much to handle, and my wrist became bruised and
battered with the devastation, was it then that I let go of my umbrella.
The moment I relieved my precious shield of its weary burdens, the waves surged. The tears that
once fell as small strings of saline beads and chaste, midnight whisperings, poured from above in sudden,
heavenly chaos — where angels reaped songs of sorrow, weeping in silent lullabies. The walls dispelled
as the torrent poured from above, and the teardrops rained an ocean, encroaching me with the
weightlessness that dispelled myself of my anguish — only for the slightest moment. The rain poured
unforgivingly as I drowned myself in tears, blending in with the blue of ocean's bitter embrace. As the
waves washed over my senses, there I was, lifeless and floating, drowning upon the salt that inflamed my
lungs and burned my eyes blinding me with the blue of earth. Deprived of sight, I sought penance to the
lord through gasps of air that came out in desperation, as a plea, and received only gaping bubbles that
responded in unheard, taunting prayers. Baptizing myself in the ocean that I prayed would diverge, part
into two and forge an escape. If God heard my prayers, he simply laughed, turning water into wine, and
the sea of blue washed red in front of my eyes. Alcohol seeped through my pores and burst through my
throat, reminiscent of forbidden apples and eternal sin — and damnation. Weightless, drowning, and
drunk, I remained blinded with the sounds of angels weeping in my ears and the teardrops that I once
consumed, consuming me with no utter remorse.
--
It is when I am drunk upon the tears of another that I reckon the sober truth. It takes just a few
knocks on the door above to heaven's gate to stop the madness, to stop the drowning, but I find myself
reluctant. This reluctance isn’t founded upon moral insensitivity or compassion for the tearful sojourner
who reigns above — I am no patron, nor am I a plaster saint of God, but rather, I am a coward. I fear what
lies behind the doors of the apartment above, and I fear that when I knock on the door, expecting to open
to an ocean of angels weeping the sorrows of sacrifice — I fear I'll simply find myself face to face with a
reflection of myself. A mirror of truth I am unwilling to seek, for I may find myself curled up in fetal
position, broken, mirrored sorrow glistening as shards of my reflection pierces my skin. Crying
outrageous tear droplets that drown beloved umbrellas and broken beings with the intoxication of sin and
repentance, lamenting unheard prayers and glass-scraped knees from where I beg for forgiveness.
Therefore, I force myself to remain unknowing, for I fear the truth will break me more than I have
been shattered. As I open the door of my apartment to surging waves, an ocean reminiscent of what was
once harmless teardrops, I continue to remain unknowing. Drowning in the tears of myself I refuse to
acknowledge. I refuse responsibility, instead I place blame on the heavens above. At two a.m., I remain
unknowing, awaiting the day the wave subsides, and the blue of earth opens to the luster of yellow
daylight.
At two a.m., I remain drowning.
Artist Statement: My writing is naturally very reflective of myself, and this piece, though fiction, is something that is founded from both my vulnerability and my fascination with the complexity of emotion. I wrote this for a school assignment and it has since reopened my love and joy for writing.