I have a love and hate relationship with the rain. Most times, I love the way it appeals to my senses— the sound of it pounding on the roof in a rhythmic drumbeat; the sight of water descending in wild torrents from the heavens and the graceful trickle it makes on the window panes; the scent, yes, I can smell the rain and that of the dampened earth, the grass, the leaves of trees; the incomparable feel of its natural shower. I love it when it lulls me to slumber and stirs me up in the morning, beating my alarm clock and the roosters to the punch. I love watching it as I lounge in bed with the company of a steaming cup of coffee or some music in the background.
Other times, the rain can be a total jerk. I hate it when it ruins the day and how impeccable its timing is— like it almost always knows when I’m wearing a new pair of white sneakers, or when I’m about to hit the beach, or when I didn’t bring an umbrella to work, or when I’m out on a long drive so it can get me stranded wherever it so desires.
It’s raining today but I don’t know what to feel about it precisely. A part of me says it’s fine because at least, with work suspended, I can stay home for an extended weekend and make up for my procrastinations the past two days. I can catch up on a book, pop new movies on the DVD player, fold my clothes, fix my room or be practically idle the whole day and not care about things. Alas, another part tells me I can’t; the rain today feels strange— it makes me think the month before. It’s the exact same day and the exact same weather, but with you on your bed and I in mine, both of us basking in our own personal rains and mourning for the lost sunshine.