They say we come from the same puddle.
Not even a puddle, they say, but more like a cup of old, lukewarm water, sheltered from dangers and direct sunlight. It only took us a billion years to meet, to find a place of darkness and dampness where we could explode into a wondrous cell, one that would grow leaves, hearts and hands to build skyscrapers with.
They say we’re made mostly of water even now. We haven’t grown into some extraordinary new substance shaped to fit in tight jeans and t-shirts; in fact, we’re still part of that same muddy puddle, only it’s so diluted now that I sometimes find it hard to believe we’re flowing together towards the same thing.
When I moved to London, this girl who’s never really liked me and whom I hadn’t talked to in years took the time to write me a message on Facebook: “London. Well good for you, I hope you love nasty rainy weather”. Hostility turns out to be as resilient as all other human sins.
It’s been a while and I guess she was right.
I’m most likely in the rainiest place I’ll ever be, surrounded by waters on all sides. There are times when an umbrella left at home turns into a tragedy. There are days when the invention of waterproof mascara seems to beat the discovery of electricity. And yet I’m here still, closer to the ocean than I’ve ever been, walking my 70-percent-water body down these streets of gray. Breathing in. Looking at you. You’re something else, you’ve got limbs of your own and countless hopes and dreams I’ll never know, yet your eyelids and fingertips are as watery are as mine, and I sigh with relief. I am not alone in this puddle of ours.