Standing in a storm. All around, rain. Rain. Rain everywhere. Greyness and wind. And rain, of course. Only the mistiness and the smell of the storm, and the indescribably sad sound of the teardrops of rain.
Sometimes the rain doesn’t water the Earth and feed her and help her to grow, as you might imagine. Sometimes the rain pours out what sparse feelings are left inside your heart. Sometimes the rain rips them away and ravages what little you had left. All of those things you thought you had so very carefully stored away, yes, all of those things. They pour out with the rain. You can put your hands around your heart and clutch tightly, but it doesn’t matter. Everything slips between your fingers. Everything slips away, except for sorrow.
Old songs and old photos and old feelings fall down from the sky. They all mix in with your tears, and who’s to say where the rain ends and the tears begin? Not me. It pours down, mercilessly beating at your face. Haunting, haunting. If only the rain could wash all the sorrow away. But it can’t. Miracles seldom come from heaven.
|Standing in a storm.|