What the Thunder Said

by thanklemons


Rain feels heavy and light at the same time, like being washed in a sea of paradox. I want to hide from it and I want to be immersed in it, and it’s moments like this, struggling to decide what I want from the rain, that I think about you.

<It’s that way, isn’t it?> 

Maybe it’s not just you; maybe it’s everything. Maybe it’s me. My way. Half-decided, one foot on the ground, never fully committed to anything except [selfishly] to myself. I’m living a rented collage life, one that I borrow clips and phrases to paste together. It’s haphazard, so I can stick more layers over top; nothing has to stay the same… I never have to commit. Like the walls of an apartment, I’ll paint plain white over the personal touches and move out when the time comes. It was never mine, anyway.

Like you.

Apartment walls and rainy days are both blank slates, in their way. When it storms, we’re living in a whitewashed world. The sky is a solid, stark sheet, and the buildings are drained of color in the grey light of day. We’re all renting space, borrowing time, sharing blips on the radar–washed out when we leave, a faded imprint rendered invisible with enough scrubbing.

The city, the walls, the rain all belong to no one, in the end. And neither do I.