tap tap tap...
I look outside my window and see the fat drops of rain splashing and sploshing against the clear glass. I can no longer see much beyond the sheet of rain that obscures the view from my room up on the twentieth floor. My room usually looks out over the greater part over the city to the north and the sea to the west. But today, there's no city today. There's not sea today. All I see is a great wall of gray. The rolling clouds overhead are as ominous as storm clouds could be. A giant mass of gray and black split open every few minutes by the sharp, purplish-bluish-white of lightning. There! I see one. It's wide with as many branches as a root underneath the soil. It's kind of funny how things are reflected. How remarkable it is that the humble plant roots buried beneath the earth are painted among the clouds of the sky as lighting splits open the sky above.
I hear the horns from the city's busy, traffic-ridden veins down below. Hear the impatient honks of jeepney drivers rushing from one destination to the next, their passengers huddled against each other inside, against the merciless downpour. Shivering. The rain hushes the sounds, though. And every few minutes, all noise are drowned by the loud, deafening boom of thunder as Thor's mighty hammer strikes.
I've always loved the rain.
As a child, I loved it because it meant the possibility of cancelled classes, of staying home doing nothing but enjoy the sound of the rain, the cold air, a balm to the usually stifling heat of the tropics... it was our equivalent to the western snow days.
Now, almost grown up (I say almost because I seem to be still stuck in that phase between adulthood and childhood, even if I'm legally considered an adult), nothing much has changed my love for the rainy days. There's something so calming in seeing the world around you in washed out colors. The gray skies. The gray earth. The gray space in between obscured by the outpour of the heavens. It's like washing out a wall into utter blankness, nothingness, before the artist splashes it with colors so vibrant that you would be hard pressed to imagine that that same wall was once blank. It's renewal. It's rebirth. A sense of second chances. Of hopes. The hope of the skies quenching the dry, thirsting earth... nourishing it, nourishing the life that lies in wait beneath.
I love the sense of reckless abandon you get as you walk/run/skip/jump through the downpour. It's as if you're stripping away all the heaviness upon your shoulders and go back to a time when you still lived in the moment, to childhood days spent under the skies as it opens up and soaks you.
I wish the next time it rains, I could stand outside, spread my arms out, look up, feel the raindrops fall to the earth, fall to me... feel the rain wash away all the negativity to make room for second chances, for rebirth, for renewal. I wish I could be be as a child once more and dance in the rain in an open field and not in the middle of a busy city street where cars and jeeps whiz by, where people hurry to find shelter, where flood waters rise for every moment the rain does not let up. I'd dance in the rain today if not for the weird stares that would guarantee me a quick ticket to the psych ward.
But, dancing in the rain or not, I still feel it. I feel the stirring in my soul.
To let go.
To "let the rain wash away all the pain of yesterday (I'm Coming Home, J. Cole)."
To take the chance.