I am not one of those poetic people
in the sense that the sickening symbolism behind the cleansing and rebirth in rain
does nothing for me.
I am an ecologist and therefore understand that rain is life and rain is everything.
But it is not mine.
I can dance in it. I can turn my arms and face up to the sky and smile and drink it in. But it is cold.
It is cruel.
The rain does not love me.
Gray skies have an effect on me that is much too similar to my own lack of serotonin.
When I awaken to the flat, white, bleak light of a rainy morning I can feel nothing but despair.
Yes, everything is green, but
there is no sunshine.
There is something to be said for kisses in the rain. But only because his lips are those of a lover of the rain, and for those instants when we are joined I can believe him.
Any other day, the rain kills me.
And yet I am following my personal sunshine across the country to the rainiest place of all
and I can only hope that my hatred for this weather
will not cloud him over from me.