At least, that’s what I tell myself. That a little rain is necessary for the animals and plants and people all around, even if it means getting my sneakers wet on my walk home.
I wonder if my pain is meaningless. Years of work and anguish and suffering, cycles of excitement, sadness, and apathy. What is it all for?
Our ancestors appreciated the rain much more than I ever will. Months of hard work would only bear fruit if only the clouds decide to generously shower the fields with rain.
For me, rain is nothing but pitter-patter on my window, the droplets on my glasses that make it hard for me to see, cold nose and cheeks. Wet.
I dislike being wet. You can imagine how much I dislike being perpetually wet.
Perpetually wet is the same as being perpetually in pain. Except I can only blame myself for one and the skies for the other. I wish I could blame them both on the clouds.
Guilt, like most things, is only good in small amounts.
I could choose to blame and shame myself, or I can choose to accept and adapt. There is a temporary comfort in the first, but an everlasting satisfaction in the latter.
Let us always choose the latter.