It’s raining again.
It rained yesterday and last night too. It’s not that I hate the rain. And hate is too strong a word, even for hurricanes. I’m grateful for the shower of grace bestowed by the heavens. I have always imagined the earth revel in its velvet touch. The trees sway in glee. The flowers smile in delight. The soil sighs in relief. The hills and fields antcipate their way back to vivid green.
I wish I could be like them. I wish I could abandon all expectations and go out. Get wet. Let mud slide between my toes. And for once, not to permit the grey grimes steal my carefree mood.
I cannot remember the last time I bathe in the rain. Those were the moments forever lost in my childhood. I long to take them out from the trunk and relive the blithe of being that alive and innocent, shrouded from the thorns of existing in this dog eat dog world. If I could, I would like to capture what it feels like to be a child – brutally honest, painfully naive, and endlessly optimistic. I need that optimism now, the sanguinity that made me believe in faeries and magic and shooting stars.
Perhaps it’s one of the reasons why I cannot like the rain as much now. Rain was one of the highlights of my youth. There are too many memories interwoven with raindrops and gray skies. Too much happiness. A speck of heartbreaks. A sprinkle of disappointments.
Rainy days are made for reminiscence. Rain hits too close to home, creating a tapestry of who I was, who I wish I could be.
Rain makes me want to believe in the impossible.
One more time. Ever after.
Note: Another late post. I’m too busy trying to live, when the least I can manage is to exist.