While I live faced towards the sun, I covet the rain. Rain is the master of incarnation, rinsing the world clean of the drudgery of routine, the burden of sameness. Its saturated cells rebind us to the earth and right ignored wrongs.
Is there a sight more beautiful than a freshly drizzled-upon forest? Leaves already green with springtime youth seem to shimmer an almost inhuman shade. The dampened earth smells of childhood naivety and unfiltered imagination.
That jarring scent follows me with unshakable determination as I jog through the forested park’s central vein, void of others, full of life. Every nook and cranny of my being is tickled awake by the constant stream of droplets. They sliver into my socks and squiggle over my hair.
With a thunderous clearing of the throat and a flash of brilliance, the rain falls much harder, just as I emerge from the forest. The normally busy street is bare and defiant as the taunting sky goes full torrential.
I do not shimmer an inhuman shade as my pores slurp up the zingy rain, but I smell like childhood naivety and unfiltered imagination now. And even after I make it home, wring out my soaking-wet clothes and rinse off, the rain’s perfume lingers. These saturated cells are rebound to the earth.
Dance in the rain,