Rainy days are bittersweet. Sometimes, they visit you like an old friend, and it softly kisses your windows as you gaze lovingly. You may even go outside to hug the rain, and talk to the rain. On those days, the rain is nice. On those days you look into the most beautiful shade of grey hanging over you, and you wonder if the sky is happy to see you too. You wonder if it can feel anything at all, if it can see itself nurturing the Earth and soil, if it wants to dance with you. In that moment you feel safe, as if you know the answer to how it feels. It's happy, you think, as anything would be if it spread so much euphoria to the Earth.
There are other times when you are reminded that the rain does not care. How could it care? It's a mass of precipitating water hitting the Earth blindly. It has no reason, and no remorse. It drowns cities and leaves people homeless, it creates dangerous roads that are unpredictable. Instead of welcoming it, you vehemently wish it's imminent demise. You curse yourself for being a human fool, personifying something as blatantly obvious as water falling blindly. No, you hate the rain. It doesn't care. You wonder if the rain feels bad now. You glare out the window, objecting it infinitely in your head. You think it should feel bad. How can it be so blind? No one wants it here. Go away, you think. It doesn't stop. The rain won't stop, like a bleeding wound. Stop crying. No one feels bad for you. You go outside, wondering if there any tissues big enough for the sky.
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AuthorDeath is a myth, according to the world. Archives
May 2018
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