Cold Rain

Why does the rain have to be so cold here? I miss being warmly soaked by some sudden deluge, by some distant thunderclap and unexpected downpour.

My parent's subdivision (funny, how it's theirs now, and no longer mine) was built in an old rice field. The street gutters would overflow when the tropical storms came, pushing dead leaves and debris halfway up the lawns. Dark, low clouds and large, heavy, constant raindrops kept the world small, pulled in the walls and ceiling. Cars would circle the block until the water went down (or the drivers' courage came up) enough to ford through the churning, wet mess.

My mom used to get after us for playing in the deep ditches when it flooded. Fears of snakes or worms or ants or drowning or currents or sharp unseen glass shards. There were no storm drains to get caught in, just asphalt and concrete. We'd come home covered in mud and grass clippings, shedding our sopping outer skins at the front door. And after the rain and the water withdrew, the new crawdad holes would be visible, evidence new life made from clean clay.

I remember riding my bike through a flooded field one night when I was fourteen. The rain had stopped, and my clothes were still soaked. The warm, balmy, summer air felt nice. The full moon reflected brightly off the clear, flat, calm surface of the two-inch-deep lake where the field was. My front tire ripped softly through the water, whirring crisply, and I remember feeling alive. Like I was running on water, somewhere between flying and speedboating, the humid air suddenly cool on my skin. I remember laughing and dodging and sliding out on my back tire, avoiding the much deeper water in the roadside ditch.

I miss that. Here, rain's just cold.

Escape

Nobody ever tells you what it feels like to escape. Sure, writers describe it, screen actors fake it, and the rest of Hollywood and the entertainment world try to approximate it with crecendos and soft tones. Still, for me, nobody ever told me how it feels.

It's like disappearing.

One moment you're there and you matter. According to the cosmos, you're the most important being in the universe. Everyone and everything has conspired to bring you down, hold you tight, and trip you up. Everything is focused on you. Then, for that one moment after you escape—you stop existing.

It's all relative, I'm sure. And a bit disorienting. A little after a lot feels like nothing at all. And even though I'm sure I was still alive and breathing. it sure as hell feels like nothing to me.

Escaping ends up being terribly anticlimactic. Especially when you put so much effort into it, not being praised feels so depressing. There are no fanfares, no trumpets or kettle drums. Those come later. After this one slight moment.

Id

We're insecure

we're entrenched and want to care
for the silent, violent monsters in the night

We're unsure
we're displaced and unaware
that these beasts won't go down without a fight

We feel fleeting,
we're still awake,
escaping sharp, dark, icy fears and fiends

We steal feelings
claw at eyes, bite at ears,
tear away tiny, lifeless shreds, then leave