podeamrain
It’s been a long time since I’ve been out in the rain; out in the rain by choice, anyway. A slip and a fall and a tear that left me without running for the longest time also left me with a slight dislike for rain – a dislike I hadn’t even noticed till now.
I had to mail a letter, and it had to get mailed then – yes a letter, how terribly quaint. A hand-written one at that, but not perfumed. I have my limits. Mailing a hand-written letter can’t even be considered old-fashioned, can it? It’s a time disparate, it’s coming back in vogue.
But a letter it was, a hand-written one, because people don’t receive hand-written letters enough.
I picked a mailbox. Not the one closest to home, but second closest – I felt like the longer walk.
Walking in the rain, the water in sheets, turning the eyes grey. Everything was grey, the blues and the greens and the yellows. Only reds were red, a vivid red.
I had an umbrella, a big one. Yet it didn’t keep all the rain off me, whipped by the winds as it was. I’m glad it didn’t, was glad. I even angled the umbrella wrong, just to feel more than a mere lash of stinging refreshing-ness on my face and on my elbows.
–
How terribly odd and self-indulgent; I’m not sure what this means. Of course, any literature major would be able to point out the links between the rambling and intents; links and intents the writer is blissfully unaware of.
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