It had Something to do with the Rain.

I think I am slowly coming back from the horrible limbo that is to be neither living nor dying. The race with no finish line, rest with no relief; a zombie with a soul still awake to mourn the functioning decay of a corpse whose spasmodic rigor mortis just happens to look like walking.

Do you know what it’s like to be resurrected? Do you know what it’s like to feel the way it happens; the way forgotten vitality begins to trickle back into your bones and seep into and out of your pours so you aren’t stagnant anymore?



Maybe it had something to do with the rain, that storm last time I was home.



The trees shook their bowed heads in violent pleas for mercy from the wind that propelled the clashing of titanic clouds above. Fickle gusts caused the clouds to churn like a lumbering vortex, so alien and determined that I felt uneasy in my place on the hammock directly beneath the steely spiral. The clouds around that vortex were constantly moving; every three seconds they became something else. Shape-shifters, fighting a slow-motion battle in the sky, and soon raindrops began to fall; blood dripping from the edges of their gaping wind-wounds.

Thundering repercussions of the evanescent war finally reached the earth and I felt so, so small. The hammock cradled me, rocking in the wind and I knew I wasn't safe from lightning. I was stiff and afraid, but I made myself stay. The crashes were so enraged, it seemed like the storm was threatening me personally; making me feel as if I was damned for some reason I didn’t know, but also somehow understood.



My opportunities for excitement and unnecessary risk are rare, so when I saw the first flash of lightning I couldn’t help but think of it as a challenge. They were taunting me, the flashes and the crashes and the granite cloud-creatures, flaunting the storm’s power to strike me down. So I stood and walked out into the field, exposed to the heavy raindrops and vulnerable to the tempest’s whim. Grass clippings clung to my bare feet and in less than a minute I was thoroughly soaked, forced to remove my glasses. I jumped at a sudden thunderclap and had to keep myself from rushing inside. My fingernails bit into the palms of my hands. I hovered in the garden, feeling safer amongst the foliage.



I think everyone knows that colors are brighter when it rains. There’s less light, and sight is obstructed with the raindrops like static, but somehow the colors are brighter than usual. Pink stands out, I think, the most arresting. In my mother’s garden, I can see every shade and combination of hues in vibrant spatters. They are all rich, like God has spilled His supernatural paint, but it’s the pink ones that really glow--like neon signs in the fog.



They make me miss city rain. Wet streets in the dark, wavering street lamp reflections in gritty gutters and hotels feel like home; neon signs flickering through the slanting drops that soak my hair make me want to be on my own, living in a crappy apartment in Chicago or maybe Portland.



I know I’d be a little afraid of going there, though. Afraid of the thunder, of being alone, of bad people in the dark.



I am a little—or a lot—afraid of everything I want in life. I used to think it was the fear I wanted, before I realized the difference between thrill and fear. Thrill comes when you know the possible consequences, yet you proceed of your own will—not need or coercion, but pure personal choice—because to you the experience is worth the risk. Fear comes when there is no choice—not really.



I count, when I’m afraid. 96, 92, 88, 84, 80; I count backwards from one-hundred by fours. I’ve never been the best at any kind of math, but I tend to be afraid more than I should so I get to know that pattern too well. So sometimes I try it by sixes, and maybe back from some more random number, like 127.



Focusing on the numbers, I can talk myself down so that I don't dwell on the fears so much; spend all my time dreading them. So that I don't let them pool in my hands and stare at them, studying every detail, wondering why, and trying to find ways to avoid more.

But how can you dodge raindrops in a storm? Bad things can’t be avoided, so it’s useless to wallow in their puddles.

Maybe preoccupation is like thick socks to me, so that lately I don't know I'm wet at all until I'm drenched and waterlogged. Because of that, I'm not sure if I'm getting better from heartsickness, or if I'm just learning to ignore it. Most of the time I am alright, but sometimes I still feel like a hunted thing. I'm not even always sure why. I know everyone feels it. Empty, as if there’s nothing else to say; nothing left to do but feel the heaviness and sigh, pondering in post-tears peace all these pieces of yourself as you lay them to rest and mourn.



There's a name for it, the psychological attachment to something that has to be severed.



God knows we all have this horrible disease, the one that causes us to need these kinds of amputations. We contracted it ourselves, by eating after a snake. Apparently no one told Eve that they carry diseases and now we have a horrible, hereditary epidemic that rots us from the inside out, making the whole earth this vast leper colony. This place where we all walk hunched over, trying to turn inside-out so we can lick the festering wounds on our souls.



I know you have them, too; I see how they make you limp. I know I'm not the only one who has been slowed down.



I'm not the only one who misses highway speeds.



I’m moving again though, at least, and that feels good. I’m nervous, because I can’t see very far ahead and there’s an awful lot of traffic. It's going both ways and it’s disorienting. But far better than staying still. Headlights, taillights, whatever; I can’t really tell where I’m going, but I’m going to make damn sure it’s different from where I’ve been.



And so far, I think I like the horizon line.