If there’s one thing I innately love, I think it would be the rain. The half-hearted drizzle, as much as it appears pathetic, even to me, I find it reassuring in a subtle way. The wind behind it pushes me forwards, hurrying my day so that I meet the next significant person in my life – someone who would have passed me by otherwise. An unsteady smile exchanged as a peace treaty after our umbrellas battle and shake their tears into our eyes.
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Lazy but steady rain is often despised by others. It gently tramples our conservatory windows, roofs and skylights in some sort of aggressive ballet. The dancers don’t stop for hours and stay on their toes all night until finally, they tire out, and only the strongest ballerinas continue to perform. It takes a few hours more before they discard their shoes at last and the noise stops.
My favourite type of rain, though – the one that trumps them all – is the type of rain that blinds. At least, surrounds you with a showery wall so you can only see 2or 3 feet in front of you. I love the rain that drenches me through, sticks my hair to my ever-glowing face and leaves me beaming as brightly as I ever could. That’s my favourite rain:
The dancing-in-the-street rain. The splash-in-puddles-like-you’re-Gene Kelly rain. The snuggle-up-by-the-fire-with-a-cup-of-tea-and-chick-flick rain. The cat-clawing-at-the-door rain. The deafening rows of the gods up above as they pound the Earth in their overwhelming rage.
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