I stare out of the set of glass double doors watching the rain. It splatters and leaps back into the air, while people all around mindlessly step on the looking glass-like puddles on the ground.The world behests my attention akin to that of a toddler, yanking and grabbing at my pants leg. Nevertheless, I am fully concentrating on the pitter pattering that occurs not ten feet away from me. From my vantage point I can see the passersby embrace or cringe from the inundation provided by the good Mother Nature. Some bare the beating liquid pellets with such grace, one would think that it was not raining at all. Others cower under makeshift newspaper umbrellas, gritting their teeth, eyes set steely on the closest point of refuge.
How the world differs in their reaction to rain, when its true components is the same components that make up the majority of our own being beckons the question, when it rains in your heart do you take the same action? There are times when you swallow your own tears for the sake of keeping a maintaining good face. Eyes dry, heart engorged with salty despair, dragging your body weight down to the earth and with it your hopes, dreams, and grandest of wishes. Is your visage telling the world this? Do your eyes scream “I’m drowning inside!”? Do your lips quiver, as if it is the greatest effort to keep such a romantic organ sealed so as to prevent the running over of the internal tears? Or does your heart bask in the deluge that it receives? Does it gain respite? Is it merely a shower of the rawest and the purest mineral known to mankind: love?
Are we just a falling rain drop? Give me your attention, lend me your ear, and I will whisper to you my inner most thoughts. Those who brace the storm outside are easy to judge. I cast my stone and, in doing so, break my home, my shelter, my area of refuge. Me, on the inside, sitting in a warm room, cardigan dry, hair still coiffed, what is my facial expression, what am I shielding myself from with folded newspapers in the hopes of seeking solace from the elements of not nature, but life. I will tell you now that my newspaper has long been soaked through. My hair is plastered to the now cold, clammy skin that I have. I grimace. My brows furrow, the exaggeration of the grooves in my forehead only increases upon each step I take into the storm. My house of glass is broken. My shelter has been taken.
We are all just rain drops plummeting towards the earth with the overwhelming hope and desire to meet with those like us.
We crave the puddle, not the pavement.