The Rain

I adore the rain: the relief from the heat it signals, the methodical beat it emulates from my tin roof, the earthy smell that reminds me of home. Night is my favorite time during a storm: I can look out the window, across the village, and see the obscure beacons of lights mystified by clouds so low that the top of the hills have disappeared into another universe. The stars have been consumed by the clouds but are replaced by the abstracted lights making me feel that I am floating through space.

Rain makes me dreamy and fanciful. I lay in my bed, burritoed in my blanket, and allow my mind to create perfect images and scenarios. I feel safest in the rain, everyone is holed up in their houses allowing me the ability to dream in my room without being judged a hermit or to stand outside, eyes towards the heavens, inviting the drops to attempt to tame my spirit and kiss my skin with their lightness. I can sit in the rain for hours, in another world, another life. The rain makes me wild, makes me thoughtful, adds substance, makes me nostalgic, makes me want to be an artist, a writer, a poet, a dancer. It makes me an oxymoron to myself. I am content.