The weatherman calls for rain, but then again it always rains here. The rain is cold and it is harsh against my clothes and against my skin. The rain comes down and it pours, and when it doesn’t pour it turns into mist that surrounds me to always let me know that it is there with me. The rain will never leave.
The weatherman calls for rain. He is an idiot in a village full of them. The rain builds up on the edges of the streets and seeps up on to the sidewalk. The rain puddles becoming giant lakes on the ground. I feel as if I am Jesus walking on water, but the holes in my shoes bring me closer to the ground than closer to god.
The weatherman calls for rain, but what does it matter? When it rains it pours and it makes days seem like weeks and weeks like months. Time stands still here only the rain and the weatherman are a constant around me. Some days it burns and some days it heals, but its presence is always with me. I wonder what it would be like without all the rain.
The weather man calls for rain, and I assume my place once again amongst the rain.
This micro tale about nothing is inspired by my time in Washington State. Fun fact, it rains there a lot. I remember walking to work and dodging the tidal waves created by the city buses and passing cars. For a place with so much rain it always seemed as the roads were flooded. I often arrived to work soaking wet. It was very humbling and honestly some days I miss it. Maybe it’s the youth I miss. The time before the kids. Not caring about anything. Of course, that wasn’t even the case then. Everything seemed way more important than it ever actually was.
Another reason I wrote this story was because I could care less about the weather. Not the environment, I care about that put your fangs back in. What I mean is that I don’t care if it is raining or not. It either is or it isn’t. So, to me weather specialist is kind of pointless. Tying it all together there might be some more symbolism in there somewhere. Not sure what it could be.