Rain is falling relentlessly over the small mountain village of Dilijan and the sky has become bright white, with the peaks and tree tops surging here and there in defiant blackness through the heavy fog. The laughter and happy after-dinner conversation of the armenian family mixes with the sound of raindrops splattering over the the tin roof and of the rolling thunder and reaches my ears as if from a half forgotten dream while I am busy pondering whether life is a meaningless string of random incidents or not. It is nice to be well covered and cozy warm in a good sweater while a cold world pours only inches away. I have no idea if the incidents are random or not, but I am pretty sure it is all meaningless, in a good way. That is what contentment brings to a man's soul, and happiness, and love.
As darkness falls I feel a slight tinge of melancholy, but I know that it is only a fleeting moment of absence, or of something of the sort, which is, I must admit, a self-inflicted, if temporary, wound of separation, the product of this wanderlust that sends me off on these journeys into the unknown, for the only sake of statisfying itself. These tired, restless feet, which walk on roads and over hills and back again until the soles of my shoes have holes. Whole souls.
Darkness is now complete. The heavy rain shines like a million diamonds for a brief instant with the lightning and the armenian brandy, sweet and strong, helps me see the meaning even in random incidents, dancing tonight together as if for the first time, creating each other in the very act of happening, and somehow I am a part of the dance too: the lightning is the water and I am raining. Don't ask me why for there are no answers.
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