I don’t know what it is about rainy days, but the things that you’d have hoped to wash away seem to taint the air with a foul presence.
The stains on the pavement dilute, creating a puddle the size of a city. You feel the pitter-patter of tiny fingers trying to soak every crack and crevice. When the clouds cry, they let out an ocean’s roar. They try drowning me with their sorrows.
On a rainy day, there is a strange kind of silence that is too loud to be ignored. I stare out the window. I don’t want to get wet. My day has come to a halt and I know that life in this city is still ticking somewhere. I wonder if there is anyone out there whose day has halted too.