If it quacks like a duck, n it walks like a duck, it must be a duck!!

It was raining that day.
The sky was colored gray with blobs of reddish-brown secreting for expanse, randomly. It seemed as if the earth was being shielded from the sun by a dark canopy of clouds, patches of which were faded of the quality of abstraction, thus allowing the purposefully ignored star to surreptitiously evince its presence in form of the reddish-brown sores. He was enjoying the idea of his heterogeneous occurrence, brazenly speculating this contemptuous haggling between the “non-living entities” from his rooftop. As if a revenge to the impudence of “the living”, the rain started pouring heavy…very heavy, in fact. He, the avidly exuberant witness of the celestial bargain, wanted, as if in full cognizance of his guilt and in welcoming compliance to the penance, the rain to stay.
To his dismay, he knew, it would not.
He, the flow-awaiter, the motion-seeker, the velocity-instigated-mirth-reaper, in killing-destitute of continuum-preserving happiness, saw himself covenanting with quiescent-death, by trying to stop the rain water pouring on his terrace of its flow by mercilessly blocking the niche letting the water flow-out, with an imperfectly carved brick.
This was a deal between dynamic and static existence.
One between life and death.

He waited, standing on the drenched floor of his terrace which was virtually rising above its absolute level, by effect of some law of optical physics which he did not care to recall then, and paradoxically, virtually sinking down under the effect of the relatively rising water-level.
He waited till the umbrella was drained-off its last drop of water, thus loosing its virginity of abstraction to the scorch of virility of the sun.
His soaked eyelids opened up to see the manually maneuvered, natural-mirror of the thick loaf of water, choking him to the depth of an ocean of nostalgia for the last drop, the last emissary of the kinetic form of universe, that was dying in form of seceding wrinkles of motion somewhere on the periphery of his extent of vision.
He stood still, sans motion.
He could see the soggy hair of his feet, loosing their otherwise dry fluffy form as if in homage to the quality of flux of water, to a more jovial and living form of underwater weed.

He could recursively watch his own self, peeping down to finding his interrogative eyes darting up from under water.
He could see the bed of the water below and that of the sky above as a reflection on the still surface of the mirror, transparent and opaque at the same time.
To him, it seemed unreasonably logical to feel that it was the pair of eyes he could touch, that were watching the ground he could feel under his feet, and the pair of eyes, he could not define the power of volitional perception of, that were observing the lightly grayish sheet of impalpable sky above.
Strangely, the sky was still fighting for its gray, though faded, metaphorically resembling the almost inevitable coyness of a young girl left breathless after her first tryst with the divine, leaving her spirit open for gamble, trying to hide her bare skin from her lover.

He found himself smiling at the discovery of finding himself smiling.

Then recollecting his self, at the event of perfect-cessation of flow from his immediate world, he carefully rose his feet, thus relinquishing his fantasies unearthed, and moved, driven by a cause towards the clogged opening, as if to set his own will free of the stagnancy of this uncommendable, flux-indifferent void of space.
He moved, relieved by the knowledge of his aim, inconsiderate of the undefiled state of equilibrating inertia of the stillness of the coating of concentrated water, clumsily splashing it and forming ethereal craters of vacuum with the follow-through of his steps.

Then, at that point of time, standing inert, over the blinded life-redeeming orifice, in full heed of his longing, and the abstract longevity of his wait for this self-regaining moment, he ruthlessly murdered the agony of his past, and relished the completeness of the anticipated-future-soaked-present.
This was the pain he bored while intentionally experiencing the waste of the dynamics of the cloudburst to the stale of a reserve. He did pass through that state of self-indignation, only in light and hope of the enormous potential of that waif reserve and because he could foresee the most dignified climax of that source of flow.
And, this was the joy one lives through when a decisively planned outcome is just about to be met and a long-deserved prize awaits you.
Then, with one swift, brisk motion of his hand he almost plucked the motion-refraining occlusion and haughtily lived the déjà vu that he knew was to be faced.

With a thunderous swiftness, heavy masses of water, as much as the down treaded pipe adjoining the hole could carry, flowed out of the rear end with uncompromising brashness.
As if in coherence with the flow, the glow of the sun, streaked of the expanse of perceptible mortality, indiscriminately cutting through the gray sheet and eroding the earth with its bright.
At the same time, something burst within him, as if a bag of emotions punctured, and loud with the immense of vigor and exuberance, a clear, sparkling drop of tear rolled down his eyes.
…
HE is ME.

By the way, who is John Galt?