The rain is the villain in every story. It foreshadows the conflict, kneels with every death, and masks the hero’s tears. But in my life, my story, the rain waters and nourishes me. It brings with it good memories and a sense of cleansing. My deepest thoughts and states of greatest content have occurred to the soft pitter patter rhythm of Mother Nature’s flowering pot.
The first memory I have of the rain was from a hot summer in middle school. Hunger Games had just released and, as a book fanatic, the lives of Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark were no exception. That day was a particularly lethargic one for no reason; I did nothing but watch Minecraft YouTube videos the entire day, maybe take a few photos for Instagram I increased saturation and vignette on. I laid in my bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to the lullaby of the outside. I started playing a song from the movie soundtrack and listened to the artist sing. Suddenly, it wasn’t someone singing from far away, but instead a forcefield of safety and comfort, shielding me from the outside world. The soft noise of droplets colliding with my window amplified.
It isn’t always a monumental event that must take place in order for you to find appreciation in things. For me, all that mattered in that moment was the carefreeness of a little kid. It was the ability to do nothing at all and not feel bad for it. It was the vacancy of my mind, of everything else going on in the world. It was the innocence, the naivety we take for granted. In that moment, I was simply a child curled up on her bed, eyes fluttering close.
The rain is my companion. It assists me in solitude and helps me realize that being alone sometimes isn’t all that bad.
August 2020