The Endless Rain

A simple philosophy: some experiences are universal, others intensely specific, and some applicable solely to yourself. And yet every experience you have is entirely your own.

It’s going to rain soon. The skies are gray as the temple bells far away as they ring a soft, sweet song. The sun has gone to rest, and it hides now behind a veil of wispy cloud. Now all eyes turn to the world below as it awaits the rain to patter on its door. The world looks sad in the endless wait for an endless rain, and the air gets moister, and the sky gets grayer. The song grows softer, and a leaf in the garden droops down in a frown. Gracefully, almost, a small drop of water rolls off and cascades to the ground, exploding into pieces. The lawn below my feet is like glass breaking around my toes, splashing softly as the rain begins.

First, it was in small orbs dropping from the skies, being lowered by the clouds gently and rolling through the trees, collecting on thorny branches and dripping down through small patches of grey through the green of the leaves. The flowers shook as they got filled with water, then tipped gently to rid them. As the clear outlook became blurred with the invisible motion of raindrops, I noticed that nothing but the sky was sucked of its color. What blended in front of my eyes under the wash of sunlight was now new, each item a different color shining in a new light. The leaves were lime green, like on a tropical island; the flowers beyond me bright red, rain running like blood down the petals and catching the dark stems. The trees were doubled in height, and touched the hands of the clouds looming ahead. I felt small in this awakened state of the world. But the door was still open…

Now the rain became a shower, with longer raindrops like warriors guided by wind. But the garden only grew more alive. The plants were dancing like there was no one watching; the trees swayed softly to the beat of the rain on its leaves, and now small streams trickled down the riverbeds of the trunk. The grass was such that I could stare into my own deep eyes when the picture was not clouded by the drops jumping from my hair. My hands looked beautifully scarred with deep red and I could smell the henna amidst the grass, the soil. I closed them, and sat for seconds stealing the song of silence. Inside, my parents lifted the golden plate with fuzzy lights. I saw a bird soaring above, perching on golden statues of the Gods. The roaring of the moment quieted suddenly, and I could tell the seemingly endless dance was closing. I splashed through the lake of grass and slithered back up the porch. The temple bells rang again, and I was singing with tears in my eyes as the sun poked its rays out and let light back into the skies.