Rain.

There is something about the rain that makes me feel good inside.

When everything out there is cold and damp, in meteoric contrast to my warm-blooded, hot-headed self. I wear a jacket to keep me dry, or at least, on certain areas that would be uncomfortable if wet. There is no point in using an umbrella, all the things I brought this morning are sealed carefully inside my backpack. What’s the problem with hair getting watered down just about the same way a shower does? Nothing. I watch people search through their bags for protection, from something that in my opinion, should not be avoided but embraced. I would later have to get on a bus, and the driver would frown, seeing this new passenger look for a seat, wet as a sponge on a sink. But I don’t care what they think.

Once I am seated somewhere (beside a window, preferably), I would watch the tiny droplets descending to nowhere, in slow motion. Forming odd shapes, but always going down quietly to the flows, like them. People.
Perhaps, the most probable theory about my sentiments for the rain is how the waters link together the ground and the skies. Two infinite worlds divided by infinite space. Getting in touch only when it rains.