It's the wind blowing free, it's the end of a slope,
It's a bean, it's a void, it's a hunch, it's a hope.
And the riverbank talks of the Waters of March,
It's the end of the strain, it's the joy in your heart.
-Waters of March
Simply put, everything went well.
Two days ago, I was trying my best to muffle the rapid sound of thump-thumping somewhere within my ribcage, lest it be loud enough that I bring people into a fitful sleep, causing my untimely demise. I believe that, had I been Catholic, I would have been praying the rosary then, with all its fifteen mysteries, twenty if you count the Luminous mysteries I have only sor ecently discovered. However, I was very much without religion that, in these terrible times of terryfying tumultous turbulent torrential troubles, I am deprived of the blissful enjoyment of clinging onto a fictitous entity.
I did, however, make a wish upon some unseen star, whispered my dreams to the wind, pleaded with the Fates and even bargained with the Earth Mother herself. I do find it disturbingly strange that I, skeptic of the Roman Catholic religion for lack of convincing proof of the truth they so love to preach, would be given to the same habit not by detail but by principle. I, however, digress.
I did get re-admitted back into the College of Engineering and given a second chance. Truth be told, it was, as I have been explicitly informed, my last chance. Nonetheless, I am so grateful that my elation has overwhelmed whatever sarcastic comment I probably would have brewed back then. Oh what a great relief flooded into me, that I would no longer have suitable cause to run away from home, not that I really wanted to. It was as heavenly as a strong laxative is to one who had been so plagued by constipation for the last three days.
With such a great weight off my shoulders and such a light-headed emotion pulling me by the ears into the clouds, I finally made sense of a very confusing song I have once heard before. The song Waters of March, while very much grating to the ears of the English purist in that most of the statements do not have any predicate at all, was very soothing, to say the least. Now, I know that an intense elation of this magnitude would also tend to spew random nouns and phrases in a very poor attempt to describe the indescribable.
It rained that afternoon and it literally soaked me right to the skin, despite the fact that I have an umbrella, for the raindrops slanted this way and that every now and then. Still, I was not disturbed by it because, if the Earth Mother herself were, for some unfathomable reason beyond the laws of physics governing the grand design, to have anything to do with me re-admission to the college, the least I could do was allow her the luxury of pelting me with high speed projectiles of water; I doubt anyone else imitating that stunt with water balloons would have long to live.
The Fates, too, were not forgotten at all. I also allowed them the privilege of raining on my happy parade.
A writer once wrote, as writers are very much prone to do most of the time, in a novel called Out, about a man called Don Italo Volpone. The capo, or head, of the Volpone Mafia, he was very much given to gambling. He always carried with him a miniature roulette, to while some of his precious time away. In his left shirt pocket, directly over his heart, was a deck of playing cards. A time once came when a knife was thrown at him; it could also probably be a bullet, I do tend to forget things after quite a while. In the end, his life was saved by that deck of cards, the knife, or bullet, sil vous plait, pierced the Ace of Hearts dead-on. A little while later, while dealing with matters of someone else's life and death, he was tempted to spin the miniature roulette but changed his mind; it was not wise to test his luck.
In another book named River of Life, there was a story about a witch named Manuilikha and her daughter, whose name I forgot although I'm positive it has the letters O and A in it. The young woman gave a charming young man a reading on her cards and politely informed him of her predictions. When the man asked her to repeat the fortune-telling, she declined, looking anxiously at the door, saying it was not good to ask the Fates twice.
I, too, abide by this principle, which a part of me recognizes as absurd. For now, I'm quite done with reading horoscopes for four signs a day and divination by rune-casting when in great distress. The busy schedule ahead would tide me over well into the next few day that I doubt I will spend that time worrying about predicting the undpredictable future, which cannot be predicted, mind you. I would be busy, but at least, I'd also be safe.
É o vento ventando, É o fim da ladeira
É a viga, é o vão, Festa da cumeeira
É a chuva chovendo, É conversa ribeira
Das águas de março É o fim da canseira
-Aguas de Março