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The rain seems neverending, the scum has been rinsed off the earth. It all disintegrates and disappears. As you grow older, rain becomes more of a burden. You forget the sedation that was felt when the wiper blades dry the windows of your car. The squeaking repetitive sounds now cause violent desires. The rain can be so cold and miserable sometimes when it blocks your vision and chills your skin and this crap is going nowhere. Friends of mine going through their own little adventure of hell. I want to reach out and help so bad. Why? Was I just born with that persistent need to heal or did it evolve from when I was young and there were no open arms, but then I had them and it helped so much. What does it mean when I strive to enter and probe and relax others disgust with life? An escape form my own? I need to love and to be loved so much I get so little. I don’t want to lose whatever love there was present in The Family on 12th & Penn. If only I could get there more often. The atmosphere there is tremendous and I always leave with a sense of warmth but not satisfaction. I appear to The Family as just another stowaway using up needless time at a place where I can hang out every now and then. I hate that. I want to fully enter the uplifting static which buzzes in the air in the apartment heard only by those who really should be there in the first place. That needed time away from home and with a real family of real friends who know how to really care, really listen, really understand and who really can correctly and thoughtfully respond is coming quicker than I can handle. That tall dark wall is also coming into view. If I can’t hurdle it soon I will really go fucking nuts… I will…
I miss the rain... that is the thing that I hate most about winter, there's so rarely actual rain. Snow, yes, tons of that... but no rain. Snow is not as pretty here in Chicago, it's not the same... but rain is wonderful. I always feel this overwhelming sense of peace and relaxation in the rain. I put my contacts in and I go and wander around. That's what I think helps me the most when shit's going down in my life.
It sets a stage for the perfect kisses. Standing in the rain, waiting for the L. Or just hanging out and walking around, soaking wet, but some how ready and willing to tumble into bed. Maybe just holding hands and standing down by the lake. It's only a few blocks over, after all.... and the lake is beautiful when it rains.
Somehow, this rain is more beautiful to me, than the cold blue sky of yesterday. Feeling alive, cool spatters on my cheek I march through memory, breathing in the scent of earth and sky. Wind breathes life into my soul again, winter's frosty grip is loosened, melted into puddles, joy for ducks, and small children with galoshes alike. I regret my lack of galoshes today, wishing I could revel in the rejuvenation. The claustrophobia of buildings and texts, are washed away, leaving me free and alive. The beauty of everyday weather, never ceases to amaze me.
and then we went inside
For some reason or another, all day I've been thinking about rain. I would really like it to rain tonight. Something involved in the cleansing power of rain. As I sit here, door locked against the invisible foe, I wish that the coulds would blot out the sunlight for the rest of the afternoon and just start raining. I want to be drenched as I walk tonight. I'm filled with this longing, this desire. I feel like it's been days, maybe more than a week since last I was able to go walk in a decent rain shower. I want to walk along in through the puddles and jump from land mass to land mass along the river until I reach a place of saftey. Then I want to listen to the wonderment. Pure enjoyment.
'Where has the rain gone?' my grandmother quoted a song from the sixties or seventies and I often wonder the same thing. That song was talking about acid rain, but I just want to know where has the rain gone? Having lived here for quite some time, I realized just how much I love the rain. Maybe it'll rain this weekend... that'd be nice.
I had been sick for about a week, and I felt awful. One of my friends and I were sitting in the lounge of our dorm and were completely bored. It was pouring down rain outside and it was really dark, but we decided to walk to the village. It was so much fun. The only reason for going there was that my friend wanted some green tea. That was probably the most random thing I have done in a while, but it was amazing.
I love the rain, most people find in annoying and just a bother when they have to make the run from the car to the building, people hurry down the streets trying to stay partially dry. I like to stroll, meander in the rain, I embrace the drops when they fall on my face, cascading down off my nose and onto my lips. The last time I walked in the rain it was more comforting than anything could had been, it was appropriate as if the heavens were crying too. Rain and tears mixed on my face, it was a camouflage for my emotions, it helped being soaking wet, the water in my shoes, the dampness seeping up the bottom of my pants, the hoddie drenched. My damp hair fell lank against my forehead. I felt cold, tired, and depressed, but it fit that on the outside it reflected the inside. I walked in out of the rain, and the people there had obviously been out in the rain as well, no one was quiet as wet as I was, but everyone’s face was covered in tears, at least I still had my camouflage, I knew that I would start to dry out soon and would have to bear the emotions rawly opening up inside me, but after everything that night, when it was starting to get bad again, I was walking home, supporting my friend, with his arm draped around my neck both were crying, uncontrollably, sloshing through puddles, with the rain bearing down on us, but at least we were together with the rain and again it seemed nothing less then appropriate, and again the rain was mixing with tears and falling across my face, and I could feel his tears falling on my check, it was a strange mixture of cold rain and warm tears. We got home and I found dry clothes and then I sat by myself in the dark and just listed to the rain splash against the window and the roofs, until I couldn’t stay awake any longer and unwillingly gave myself over to sleep with the cold rain outside and the warm rain falling across my pillow.
I seem to find myself smiling at the thought of rain. The rain has been a calming thing for me for years, I don't know why, the memory seems to have fled. For whatever reason, I know that I have a deep love of water and of rain.
Rain is a beautiful thing. it is one of my simplest pleasures to just walk in it. The warm spring rain seems like serious hope enveloping me and reminding me that things renew, they change, that I am not forever stuck in the cold winter climate of any problem. The summer rain is always refreshing. A cool wind tends to blow up with a rainstorm, so the rain and sweat on your body magnify the refreshing temperature lowering effect of the wind. Fall rain always reminds me of the end of things. There's a bite in the the air, leaves are dying on the ground. Rain seems to be liquid melancholy around this season. In winter, the rain turns to snow, one of the most beautiful things to occur naturally, and also very dangerous if you don't take precautions. I went to California last December, and it rained for the last eight days I was there. It was about fifty-five degrees in the daytime, and the rain just poured down. Everyday, I bundled up with a warm jacket, pair of long underwear on under my jeans, and layered socks to keep my feet snugly dry. I borrowed one of my friends floppy fishing hats to keep my face moderately dry, and set off on walks that usually ended up lasting several hours. I honestly like any kind of water. Oceans stun me into a deep state of awe at their size, depth, and sheer importance on a global scale. I feel so tiny when I stand on the shore. Especially the Pacific off of Northern California, all jagged forboding rocks underneath a sky the color of a sheet from an 1800's mental instituion. The saliferous spray and the crisp air flow make you feel alive, but the bitter forlorn landscape makes you wonder if being alive is worth it...
I didn't know what time it was. I wasn't aware of much of anything but my empty stomach, the pouring rain, and the fatigue of days without sleep. That night, the city was lit only by amber streetlights, which each illuminated a column of rain beneath them. As long as I walked, no cars passed, and for that I was grateful. Bright, blinding, accusing headlights passing by, always feeling like they're going a little slower than if I weren't there to stare at.
My willpower was reaching its end. I knew that I could no longer force myself to keep walking, and that I had to immediately make a decision. Acquire temporary shelter without permission or find a bush to sleep in in the rain. My weary mind churned for a moment and produced the nearby location of an art gallery / store that left its back door unlocked. I knew the people that owned it and worked at it on some personal level. But from where? What were they to me?
Opening the back door, the steady beating of rain on my back was replaced with the unpleasant chill of air conditioning lightly blowing against my front. My shoes squished and my clothes dripped with every step through the darkened shop in the back. I knew that there was a couch in the backroom employee lounge. I fell onto it and curled up, trying not to shiver.
I've never been able to fall asleep shivering. I have to sleep. I can't relax my muscles. Tense. Tight. Rain still dripping from my hair. The feeling of wet socks that's impossible to ignore. What kind of torture was this? My mind was being split apart by fatigue and I'd never been so desperately tired in my life, but sleep seems impossible.
The light flicks on and I wake up. The immediate joy of realizing that I had fallen asleep, however briefly, was promptly replaced with fear, guilt, dread, and the assumption that whomever had just walked into the room was about to have me removed, and possibly arrested.
I's S- and A-. I know them. S- is a woman in her mid-twenties and works here. Her friend, A-, is in her early thirties and owns the place. I'm in my early twenties and regard both as authority figures. S- doesn't say anything. A- explains that they can't have me staying here at night and that the police have already been called.
I had evidently broken a promise that I didn't remember making. I didn't say anything at all. I just looked at the floor and tried to keep my composure while my punishment awaited. A- asked S- to wait in the car. A- walked up to me with a sigh that carried as much compassion as it did frustration. I knew that it hurt her to have to do this. She hugged me as if she didn't notice that I was still soaking wet. She held me close, like a lover, or a son, and stroked my hair reassuringly. We both softly sang the lyrics to an old blues song from our past with cracking voices.