Writing with Rain Water

Today I photographed the clouds as the storm rolled in from the west. Deep greys with streaks of lighting and growling thunder. The city was just a foggy silhoutte in the distance. A few raindrops suggest the impending downpour. There is something about the rain that welcomes isolation. Within the last two weeks I have found myself deliberately going outside before the storm, somewhat aggravatedly getting drenched, but savoring the wetness, the exposure to the elements. The wind throwing stinging raindrops in my eyes, against my cheeks. I greet it with a smile, shutting my eyes against the assault. The water cools the fire that the city stokes in my veins. The passion for more, for less, to be rid of the oppression of identity, to embrace my ghostly anonymity. The struggle against reason, to succumb to every capricious whim. The roof is my solitary island, the width of the sky affording room for all my expansive thoughts. When I am alone there, I am content in my solitude. The lightning excites me, the thunder answers my silence. My sighs, otherwise deafening in the confines of walls, windows, and doors, are stolen away by the wind. They are not trapped inside, amplifying and choking me in my dreams. They are small, fleeting things, and I am free to let them go. Then the rain comes, and washes me clean.