Crying Windows

I woke up in slots of consciouness, and heard something that sounded like rain outside, pounding the ground and the windows, making music out of walls or floors. The water leaks along the glass, blurring my vision, just as if I were crying, my eyes watery, overflowing. Only now I can see the distance between the leak and myself, as if I were in a giant eye filled with tears. When I speak Spanish mix the words for crying and raining. I say "Esta llorando" instead of "Esta lluviendo". I've always found that mistake very beautiful, that veil which lifts and closes on a foreign language, as if I were constantly in a theatre. One of Nancy Huston's characters in her novel L'empreinte de l'ange, explains that speaking a foreign language is similar to acting, as if the world were a stage and the words, a learned text. But, when two people come together and both speak that foreign language together (in her book, a Croatian man and a German woman speak French to each other), that theatre becomes truth and makes them ever so closer. I also love to watch the red wine cry on the edges of the glass, when you stir it to exhale its aromas. The windows are crying and I can observe them with melancholy, not sadness.