i like when the rain is pounding hard on the asphalt and the white noise becomes so mesmerising, and i'm lying in bed snuggled in a sweater so safe. the sun traps me in an unmoving and discomforting haze, but when the rain slows down you hear the droplets move to a constant rhythm that pulls the heart strings forward into a sense of remembrance. mostly i remember why i like the rain so much, and the many selves before which till now seemed scattered and disparate, but now threaded by the streak of lightning, the vertical free fall of droplets. i like taking in the rain air and savouring the rarity of it all. but i am horribly limited and never get the sense that i could ever grasp the sense of infinity that the rain of many ages brings.
I used to tell myself that if there was a day I would not be sad any longer then I would know I was not truly myself. And I don't think I am sad anymore -- and then who am I now? The sadness was dark but it was vivifying and everything seemed more real, more true to what I perceive around me now. Like the sadness unlocked a different world where words and textures and the littlest things could graze my heart and make me feel and I never knew the time of solitary and mundane could have been so wonderful in hindsight. The solid pillars (encasing) around me are elaborately false structures and sometimes I think I may have fallen for them, that the false concrecity of things would numb my senses and let me fall for the passively happy for the first time. Sometimes I force myself into the neurocity I used to know, kick up a tantrum again to feel again the sliver of yesteryear, what could make me feel so alive. But it passes like I never thought it would. And if there is to be any crying now, it would be for the loss of a former self.