…where Time is merciless and Light feeds darkness.

The rain in my heart

Today was really foggy and cold. Sadly, I couldn’t see much of it when I was at work… But the little glimpse I managed to catch through the blinds before it went away was enough to make me feel good.

Most people I know don’t like the rain and the cold (or “dull” weather, as they call it). But I don’t think rain is dull, or that cold is bad. I’ll admit that some grey skies can give me headaches alright, but for the most part, weather like that contribute to my creativity. It inspires me and just makes me feel good.

It makes me feel like I might belong in this world after all. It’s the type of weather that resonates within me, in the same key as my soul’s eerie whispers. I think it’s the only weather that understands me, if that makes sense.

The sun is always so bright and the blue sky so blue. And I see none of these in me.
The light hurts my skin and my eyes always go right through the blue sky, searching for the darker one behind it, the one with the stars and infinite silence.

When the rain comes, it brings me peace & a unique type of joy.

It’s like I wrote in my last poem, rain isn’t our enemy. For me, it feels more like a best friend that reminds me of my place in the world and how & why I belong. When it strums on my heartstrings, it resonates in me and I can feel my roots glow as I remember that I am a part of the Universe and the Universe is a part of me too.

The rain reminds me of the Love in me, the love I’ve found and the love that I’ve never lost but only returned to the stars above.

It gives me those magical chills that make me want to write and sing and paint and hold my love;
It makes me want to bake a fluffy cake and play video games;
It makes me want to sleep because it says it will keep the nightmares away;
It makes me want to just sit down by the window and count every last drop.

I used to think that the rain meant that the clouds were crying, but overtime, I realized that this was a bit of a rude assumption. Kind of like thinking that birds are happy when they sing bright melodies, just because it matches our definition of happy. Because that’s their own language, and they probably are saying more than expressing joy when they sing, and so are the clouds. I don’t think they are crying anymore; I think they tell stories. Those stories can be sad, but most of the time they’re not: they’re bright and warm and colourful.

I don’t always have time to listen anymore but when I can, I feel better because I know the rain is on my side, and it understands me. There is rain inside me, and it too is often misinterpreted by those who witness it, so I’ll say it one more time here.

Rain can be warmer than the sun on the skin of a broken heart and often times, it is.

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