“Broken windows and empty hallways,
a pale lit moon in a sky streaked with grey.
Human kindness is overflowing,
and I think it’s gonna rain today.”
Ever since I can remember, as far back as recollected memory can span, I have loved the rain. A part of me comes alive when the clouds begin to cluster and darken, a release that ignites when the sky opens up, as if I have been holding so much inside me, tightly, wound and twisted up, and then the heavens begin to cry and I can cry, too, or laugh, or scream, or shout. The storm, it whips around, causing flurry and fluster and chaos all around, and in that I can get away with losing control.
When I hear the first sounds of drops on the window panes my first inclination is to run out in it, reckless and childlike, smiling maniacally and jumping, leaping really, into the gathering puddles. I felt the urge this morning, to slip on boots under my pajamas and run out into it, dance in it, bend my head back with mouth agape and taste it. My senses, they open and react to wet, deliriously, desirously, deliciously, as if the rain is a passion, or an invitation to be passionate.
Sadness comes sometimes. Crying with the skies is cathartic, almost like a baptism of emotion, letting it all drip out of oneself, cleaning out all the pores, all the thoughts, all the feelings and cares and woes. The skies clear, the streets dry, and on the other side of it I feel a soothing kind of calm.
I still long for the rain to return, though.