Drip. Drop. Drip.

Have you ever had that feeling? That tiring, demeaning, clattering feeling. That was the sound of me remembering time and time again that I left the tap open just slightly. Not that it mattered much, at least environmentally. There was a bucket underneath. And by morning, the bucket would have been half full, if not filled to the brim.

But the feeling came with every drip and every drop. That feeling. I bet you know that feeling. That eerie irritating feeling that eventually either makes you get up and close that tap or gives you a headache in the morning (imagine, vodka hangover).

This is my train of thought. That very feeling still echoes in my ear as I write this piece.

Drip. Drop. Drip.

Am I too lazy to get up and close the tap? Yeah. It’s 3:00 in the night. I am not going to get up in the middle of the night just to close a tap. And besides, It was one of those infinite loop taps where you don't have an end to where it closes.

I'd have to be a magician to be able to close that tap and find that one sweet spot where the tap actually manages to close and stay right, and the leak sort of just balances on the end as if it were a Christmas miracle. I'm sure my non-muggle friends would have a neat little spell or incantation to make that annoying little leak scurry its way back into the pipes it once came from. Or just Bombarda!! the shit out of it.

But alas, I am a muggle too. I don’t have a wand, sadly. I haven’t been to Olivander’s. The reason why I emphasise this is because I’m a Potterhead, and obviously I have an elder wand.

And it has been close to nine months that I've been listening to that same old tap go drip drop drip in that same old bucket for nine months straight and counting.

But it makes me wonder. Not how much water I have probably wasted. Or the countless times I could've used those buckets of water, with dust that has sedimented at the bottom, to practically read my future after each bath. (I solemnly hope that Umbridge doesn't evict me for that remark, provided she is ever found.)

It makes me wonder. Will I ever get some sweeter sleep out of those drip-drop drips I have been hearing for the past nine months and counting? Or will I be left waiting in dear hope that one day, just one day, out of the blue, a figment of my imagination will take flight and descend into real life and make that leak run back into the pipe?

I guess I'm waiting for that day, and probably the day after that, when a majestic snow owl calls out my name and delivers my cherished letter from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Or misidentifies my gender and hands me a letter from Beauxbâtons Academy of Magic.

Oh, how I've waited and dreamt for that to happen. Hell, just last week I thought my dream had come true when, in fact, it was a reminder that I'd forgotten to pay the water bills. Yet I still dream of a little magic. I am hoping that it comes my way in some form or another.

Alas, I pass this dream on to another as I come close to relocating soon. To another who might, just like me, sleep in a bed in this corner of this room. Be disturbed by those drips and drops. And I dream of their letters coming their way soon.

Or maybe, just maybe, I will be less of a dreamer. And I will call a bloody plumber. And get that leak fixed once and for all.

Drip. Drop. Drip.

Disclaimer: No water was wasted in the process of penning this piece. And no lazy dreamer was moved (physically) either.