Chapter 46 I am by your side and God knows baby

Chapter 46 I am by your side and God knows baby
I know I was wondering when the rain Will finally Will come to this Night. And I knew Life Will need to be diferent for me in somehow. That is the reason why I used to ignore of people and just Give myself to God.
You only need to know water a little to realise it’s tired of being a liquid. The proof is that as soon as it has the chance, it turns into ice or vapour. But not even that satisfies it: vapour gets lost in absurd meanderings, and ice is clumsy and rough, forming wherever it can and generally useful only for pepping up penguins and gin and tonics. That’s the reason water delicately chooses snow, which encourages it in its most secret desire, that of defining the shapes of everything—houses, meadows, mountains, trees—that isn’t water.

I think we should help water in this constant but ephemeral battle. To do so we need to select a snow-laden tree, a black skeleton on whose countless branches it falls to create a white, perfect replica. This is no easy task, but if, anticipating a snowfall, we saw through the trunk so that the tree remains upright without knowing it is dead, like the Chinese mandarin memorably decapitated by an expert executioner, we would only need to wait for the snow to copy every detail of the tree, and then whip it to one side without disturbing anything, in a slight but perfect displacement.

I don’t believe that gravity would collapse this pure white house of cards. Everything would happen as if the vulgar and routine were held in suspense; for an indefinite length of time, the snow-tree would realise water’s most cherished dream. Perhaps a bird will be the one to destroy it, or the early morning sun will prod it towards oblivion with a warm finger. These are experiments we ought to try to make water happy, so that it will once again fill our jugs and glasses with the breathless joy it now retains only for children and sparrows.

I know I have been wondering for a long time when the rain will finally arrive in this night. I have wondered about the moment when the skies will open and pour down their tears, washing away the silence and darkness that envelop me. Deep inside, I understood that life, in some mysterious way, would need to be different for me—somehow transformed or renewed. That realization is what led me to often ignore the noise of people around me and instead turn my attention inward, giving myself wholeheartedly to God, seeking solace and understanding in divine silence.

You only need to know water a little to realize that it grows restless, tired of merely existing as a liquid. The signs are clear: as soon as it gets the slightest chance, water transforms into ice or vapour. It’s as if water itself is longing for change, for a new form that better expresses its true nature. Yet, neither ice nor vapour fully satisfy its desires. Vapour tends to drift away aimlessly in absurd meanderings, lost in the air, while ice is clumsy and rough, forming wherever it can—often only useful for keeping penguins warm or adding a chill to our gin and tonics. That is why water delicately chooses snow, which allows it to indulge in its most secret desire: to define and shape everything around it—houses, meadows, mountains, trees—that are not water but can be molded by it.

I believe that we should help water in this ongoing yet fleeting struggle to find its true form. To do so, we need to select a snow-laden tree—a black skeleton standing quietly amidst the whiteness—whose countless branches are perfect canvases for the snow to create a white, almost flawless replica. This task is no easy feat. But imagine if, in anticipation of a snowfall, we could see through the tree’s trunk—so that it remains standing upright without even knowing it is dead—like the Chinese mandarin that is memorably decapitated by an expert executioner. We would simply wait for the snow to settle and copy every delicate detail of the tree, then gently tilt it to one side, creating a slight but perfect displacement without disturbing its fragile symmetry.

I don’t believe that gravity would cause this pristine house of cards—the snow-crafted tree—to collapse. Everything would seem to pause in a suspended state, as if the vulgar and routine aspects of life were held in suspense. For an indefinite period, the snow-tree would realize water’s most cherished dream: to become a master sculptor of shapes, a creator of worlds. Perhaps a bird might be the one to destroy this fragile masterpiece, or the first warm rays of morning sunlight would coax it into oblivion, melting away its form with a gentle, warm touch. These are experiments we ought to undertake—small acts of helping water find its happiness—so that it might once again fill our jugs and glasses with the breathless joy it now reserves only for children and sparrows.

In doing so, we might rediscover the magic of transformation, the beauty of impermanence, and the gentle power of water’s silent longing to shape not just the world around us, but also the depths of our own souls. For in helping water to find its true expression, perhaps we too can learn to become more fluid, more adaptable, and more attuned to the delicate dance of change that defines all life.