What is rain?
A scientist would hypothesize that it’s mere precipitation; part of a finite cycle of pond water floating to the clouds… an artist would add that it is as if the drops were angels, falling back onto the soil from the heavens, as they complete their cycle. I would add- I so very insignificant to the perplexities of this world- that the rain is magic. For when the droplets turn into pellets and the puddles become craters in the middle of the street, we stare. We stare and we stare, so unaware that we are wide-eyed, gaping at dogs with mud in their fur…and a lone woman with nose pink as a child’s bubble-gum handkerchief strutting down the sidewalk at the estimated speed of twenty kilometres an hour, clutching her leopard-spotted umbrella with both hands as the fierce winds make her streaking mascara resemble a mime’s face…a crazed youngster with a goatee and too much cologne racing down the road in a metallic car that must be paid for in monthly installments which are pricier than one’s average monthly rent…and all this is magic. Then there are unimaginative, cranky poets as I, refusing to budge from one spot whilst taking extreme doses of cold medication like a typical hypochondriac…staring at the rain, and complaining about how very not magical it is.
A scientist would hypothesize that it’s mere precipitation; part of a finite cycle of pond water floating to the clouds… an artist would add that it is as if the drops were angels, falling back onto the soil from the heavens, as they complete their cycle. I would add- I so very insignificant to the perplexities of this world- that the rain is magic. For when the droplets turn into pellets and the puddles become craters in the middle of the street, we stare. We stare and we stare, so unaware that we are wide-eyed, gaping at dogs with mud in their fur…and a lone woman with nose pink as a child’s bubble-gum handkerchief strutting down the sidewalk at the estimated speed of twenty kilometres an hour, clutching her leopard-spotted umbrella with both hands as the fierce winds make her streaking mascara resemble a mime’s face…a crazed youngster with a goatee and too much cologne racing down the road in a metallic car that must be paid for in monthly installments which are pricier than one’s average monthly rent…and all this is magic. Then there are unimaginative, cranky poets as I, refusing to budge from one spot whilst taking extreme doses of cold medication like a typical hypochondriac…staring at the rain, and complaining about how very not magical it is.
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