longer.blue

I think I might like the rain. Those oddly comforting tapping echoes, swiftly conducted to passageways of our convenience. The clouds seem to absorb some of the world's little problems. Watering the plants I would forget to care for otherwise, blotting out the sunlight I could never afford to feel. Did it ever intend to do any of that? Was the rain even meant to fall on me—for me? Have lives just been spent pulling the world into place, all for me to question, fear, loathe and mourn? It's hard not to feel guilty if the rain only falls in sacrifice. Time spent and love forgotten of names I will never hear. Maybe that's what the winds whisper through the shutters, or maybe that's what the thunder crackles to the Earth. So caught up in the soggy, uncomfortable inconvenience, I'm not sure if I would ever listen to those warnings anyway. Maybe that's all the downpours really are to me, missed opportunities and forgotten stories petering away.