pluviophile

7 APR 18.

Rain. It’s raining, and it’s beautiful.

I’m driving down the streets of my hometown, and the neon signs were glowing like fairy lights. Blurred by the raindrops and the glass, they seemed to shimmer. Dipolog looked unreal at that moment, and I wanted to remember it that way forever.

Next to me was my brother, talking: young, vibrant, exuberant, and with every sentence he spoke I rose to match him. The backseats were filled with people I watched grow, and people I grew up with. I was surrounded by family.

I dropped them off safely, and drove home alone. Alone, yes, but not lonely. The rain kept me company, and my heart remained warm.

Now safe inside the walls of my room, the rain comes to me in the echoes of each drop. The roof is a hollow drum, and the pavement outside a calypso. Everything the rain touches comes alive with vibrancy: the roof, the pavement, the night, the very air itself.

Untouched by the droplets, I am caressed, still, by the air, by the music of it.

I do not just hear the rain— I feel it.

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