It rained almost all day today. I do love the rain.
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I used to think that those poems and stories where people loved the rain were beautiful. Some loved it because it assured them that even the sky needed to cry sometimes. Some loved the sound that drained out all the other noises of the world. Some loved how it made them feel safe inside the house, as if it gave them the excuse to stay where they were. Pretty much anything associated with the rain that was sad but also somehow accepting I loved, and I swallowed that shit up like insincere compliments. But the sky cries every day, just not over my head. And the sound is only loud enough when it’s pouring like crazy and if you are standing in the middle of nowhere where there weren’t any other loud noises to begin with. And the rain moved people more than anything, running towards shelter and hiding their faces as if covering up their shame… no wonder people call me cynical.
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I still do love those poems, just not as much as I used to for some reason. I don’t really know why. Even so, rainy days still make me smile.
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Maybe because it’s not radiant. The same mundane scenery seems smaller somehow. Manageable enough to remember. Like how the road that I thought was flat and even had puddles now. Why did I never notice that the ground was a bit dented there? Even if I walk as carefully and delicately as possible, my shoes and ankles always got splashes. Can I even walk without dirtying myself? The speed of one raindrop versus 2 raindrops on the buss window… like how when the first raindrop meets the second one…was it cohesion? How they emerge and gather up speed and fall like nobody’s business. All the stupid small details suddenly catch my attention. Maybe, rainy days pique my interest.
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Maybe, the world is a bit more interesting than what I claimed.
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