It's raining again.
The atmosphere is grey and dreary and the roads are whitewashed in crystalline patches of wetness. I can see the rainclouds on my window and their trickles down in sinewy motions like streaks of colourless anguish. The petrichor is tainted with dissatisfaction and a burning urge to disappear. Maybe this is why rain is associated with dispair, with gloom, with depression. The peace is surreal, it's calm in a way that freezes your soul and leaves footprints of forgetfulness on your memory.
My room is dark and one of my study tables is drawn up against the window. I like it here. It helps me look down at the street below like a celestial aching for a touch from the mountain tops. I can see the people matching in careless oblivion, dodging the rain pellets. The cars drive past, swishing in a white wind of racing water puddles. There is music and peace intertwined with the heartbeat of humanity and the sadness in my heart. Once again, Natasha Bedingfield's I bruise easily seeps through the calm speakers in my room and serenades the entire loneliness. I heave a sigh. I am at peace now.
The only sound is my heartbeat.
The only light is the darkness.
The only colour is the grey
And the only sight is the blindness outside.
The rain does this to me all the time. It makes me want to sit down, stare at the world outside and write about all the regrets I ever had.
