When it rains, it pours. The skyline of the city hides behind the overcast skies. Dark thunderclouds roll along shortly afterwards to rain on everyone’s parade, driving everyone back inside their homes.

Except me.

I go to the outside every time it rains. It is quiet and vacant, just the way I like it and the way it is at home. Dark. Empty. Lonely. But I find it beautiful. Beautiful is everything others find horrible. Loneliness, thunderstorms, silence. What’s under appreciated and overlooked.

I lay on the grass alone, staring up at the sky. Raindrops splatter all over my face: in my eyes, on my lips, through my hair. It drenches my clothes and body with the tears of the sky. Allowing nature to mingle with skin. The most gentle contact. The sweetest touch. The thunder is known with low growls and high howls. It is if the sky is singing me a lullaby. I stretch my arms out to touch it as it tries to reach for me.

Though some find this terrible, I find it wonderful. I appreciate what is there before it all disappears. I want everything to stay beautiful in every way, the bluntly attractive as well as the hidden joys of life. Not just for me, but for generations to come. Whether they know it or not, I know they want it just as badly. No one knows what they have before it vanishes from sight, and soon enough our own memories.