Rain

I’m unsure what to write about today, as nothing eventful has taken place and my insights into life are not insightful to anyone else but myself, as I have strange and carefree and forward ways of thinking. However, it’s raining today and I enjoy rain more than anyone I have ever met. It’s strange, I know, but sometimes I just go out in stand in it, or lay on the ground, or run, and once I wore just a pair of shorts, no shoes or anything, and sprinted deep into the forest for at least two miles. I returned bruised and cut from slipping down so many hills and whatnot, but I must admit, it was one of the best and most exhilarating moments of my life. I recall my sister looking at me like I was insane, asking me “What the fuck did you do?” Those are not her words, but that’s what I would have asked myself.

I read a science fiction story years ago, or maybe it was a dream; I often confuse the two, as well as real life. The story took place in a world where rain was constant, the sky forever overcast and bleak. I don’t recall much of the story’s plot—something about a massive storm—but the imagery was magnificent. Rain slipping down glass skyscrapers, mirroring a leaden and silvery world, women walking sodden streets with black trench coats beneath black umbrellas, makeup nonetheless running down their faces, smearing, staining beauty while all the while creating a new, tarnished sort of beauty. The most breathtaking beauty is often tarnished, in some way. Puddles reflecting the sky, or for those brief moments, those who stepped around or into the puddles. They say every puddle has a secret. I said that to an ex-girlfriend long ago, and she laughed wildly and told me I was insane. I don’t know why I remember that moment so well, and still, to this day, I sometimes repeat those words. By now I might even believe my absurdity. Grayed water running down street sides, eddying, white rapids vanishing into the darkness of drains as faint echoes stir whenever there is silence in the city, when a car does not pass and a voice does not shout. And when you gaze upwards, it’s almost like you can see forever, into and through layers upon layers of clouds. And the rain falls, the drops seemingly infinite and invisible until they’re almost close enough to feel. You hold out your hand, cupped, and in time a pool forms, rippling with every new drop. Long ago, my friend and I played outside in a rain storm, kicking puddles at each other. I missed and kicked the street hard enough to bloody my foot. I screamed, maybe cried, and then we went back to kicking puddles.