Dear Rain,
You walk beside me like an old friend, whispering secrets of forgotten streets. Each drop pulls me into your quiet rhythm, turning the city into a canvas where I am both painter and paint. I wander without direction, yet I know I'm going somewhere, perhaps nowhere, but your voice guides me, urging me to release the weight I carry.
This melancholy, once my burden, becomes my shield, and you wash over me, tending to old wounds. Beneath the grey clouds, hope lingers, fragile but real, like light after a storm. Maybe I'm not aimless. Perhaps I'm gathering lost pieces of myself scattered across the wet streets. In the silence between thunder, I feel it. Growth, slow but certain.
The world may feel heavy, but I know you, Rain, will carry me through. Step by step, through sorrow and song, I’ll find that this wandering has been my way of healing, becoming more than I thought possible.
I'll find my rainbow, thanks to you, Rain.
Yours,
A Flâneuse of the Storm 7 replies
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Sometimes, we are the rainmakers, pulling clouds from our own hearts, letting them break open so the rain can fall. It’s our hands, our pain, our longing that call the storm. But there are moments when we stand beneath a clear sky, waiting, hoping, knowing that no amount of effort will make it rain. In those moments, we realize that the rain we need isn’t ours to summon.
There’s a kind of magic in finding someone who carries their own storms, someone who can bring the rain when we are too dry, too parched from our own droughts. Together, we create the downpour, two hearts stirring the skies, revealing the rainbow we both search for.
Sometimes, love is not about making it rain ourselves, but about letting someone else rain with us. 1 reply
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