Such a strange thing, Rain is.

The way it strikes the ground with such force, creates a hissing white noise which silences everything around it, just like a radio blaring loud enough so as to stop a man from thinking at all. Perhaps it was to suddenly stop:

Inaudible. Empty. Just like an old silent film, the pictures continue stirring, swaying, sweeping, all so swiftly, as if ignorant to the cessation of the senses, as if to say, “We have no time for sights, smells, or sounds. The rain is our steel cage, our minds the key to the lock.”

Just like that the rain is plunged to the ground almost like it never stopped, perhaps a skillet was placed beneath the clouds and God, or maybe the wind, gave it a little push, toppling the skillet over, flooding the cities, engulfing the valleys as the water bounces off the high mountainous walls looking for a purpose, a place to settle. That’s the thing with water, it never settles; constantly changing forms to match its environment. I suppose we are all like that.

The highway is packed like sardines in a can – just as unattractive too. There is an opening amongst the sea of cars, it is almost biblical in a sense, shocking in a way, almost as if you fell asleep during a road trip, only to wake up with that urgent feeling of panic that consumes the mind, that feeling of, “Where in the fuck am I?”

The rain is still spewing from the heavens. Where in the fuck am I? I look around groggy and apathetic, wanting to sink back into the madness of sleep; where I had been dreaming of the warmth of a summer sky, a setting sun on the horizon – all sorts of vibrant colors, like the canvas of a woman in love – I never find that place, you know, that dream. Instead, I am drawn to the sight of a young boy staring most curiously at the water droplets on his cars windowpane. He’s thoroughly astonished; the way the droplets seem to race across his line of sight in competition, how for every single droplet there’s one-thousand more, how every bit of water is moving, changing. Not one droplet is ever the same, yet not one droplet is ever different.

This resonates deep inside of me, an epiphany of sorts; I realize the collective existence related to the nature of water. It only appears to be a “single droplet” because that is what humanity has agreed to know it as. That droplet belongs to something bigger, perhaps it was taken from the ocean, and to the ocean it will return. Perhaps every droplet of water in the ocean was on its self-explorative pilgrimage at one point, but decided that the ocean is where it belongs. Yet, it would be considered mad to say, “Look at that ocean on my window” because we do not know things this way.
I stop for a moment to listen to everything; not just hear it, but listen to it. The rain stops. It is serene, beautiful even, the colors of the coastline are vibrantly glowing, I can finally hear the ocean clashing and cracking against the sand like gentle percussionists, so much sand; I can see every single grain, glistening against the sun; the sun, it finally peers through the omnipotent dark clouds illuminating every truth the highway coast has hidden. I say to myself, “To each is every.”

The car slips, crashes into the sea.