I love the rain. Love it love it love it. Even if it was everyday, not just once or twice a month, I would still be enamored with each and every drop.

Because really to me the rain is a release of anguish. I don't know why, but it always has been. That all our sorrows float up into the sky, condense, are held for weeks and weeks, months and months. All up there, muddling, sifting into clouds, being carried across the world on the wind. Until there is so much that white tufts grow darker and they sag with the weight of things unspoken, the sorrows of the sky. And keep moving, keep traveling, this burden always with them, growing, growing. A sky full of dark clouds, saturated in the pain of the world.

And then they let go. All at once, in little droplets that make the leaves in the trees sing and open up and breathe. Fat globs of water that allow the earth to breathe. That's the most miraculous thing to me, that this burden the clouds have been carrying, taken from different places and different stories and different lives, can give such life. Can make the plants that were shriveled and hopeless reach up to the dark sky and drink. Can soften the earth and slake the world's thirst.

To me, the rain is a cycle, I guess. Proof that suffering is necessary for rebirth. That as we hold our sorrows inside, the heavier and darker we become. That we need to release, that we need to let that anguish fall like tears from the sky. Because I think, when we do, the world eases a little bit. And mostly, I think, we can finally breathe.

Until the next rain.