The rain poured down on us, but it didn’t matter. “Hurry up!” I shouted. “We’re going to get wetter the slower you are!” I looked back and saw him walking two steps and then breaking into a soggy jog. I doubled over unable to contain my laughter. “Man, all I wanted was ice cream, but I’m just getting wet and cold!” he shouted through the pouring rain. I continued laughing, but I got a well deserved punch. “Hey! That was uncalled for!” I said, unable to contain my smile. He rolled his eyes and said, “You mocked me! You made me look like a fool!” I took his hand and started walking toward the ice cream parlor. “It’s not my fault that you’re slow.” He pulled me as he walked a little faster and said, “It’s not my fault that you forgot the umbrella!” By the time we made it to the ice cream parlor, we were dripping wet from head to toe and shivering, but it didn’t matter. We held onto each other and ordered ice cream, sitting in a booth across from each other and shared the ice cream we trekked through the rain just to get. He took my hands and started rubbing them and said, “This was unexpectedly worth it.” I smiled back at him and whispered only so he could hear, “You’re worth the rain and the storm. You’re worth it to me.”
Everyone who lives in the city is fully knowledgeable that when it rains it pours. The rain boots immediately go on, umbrellas are whipped out and our heads are lowered into the pouring rain. Lakes are formed where holes once were and you could peer into them and wonder if a world exists by itself. En route to class, unless you don’t have rain boots, you would have to leap or take an alternative muddy path to make it forward. Rivers cascade down the streets and for a second, you’re mesmerized until you realized all the elements of the city that have come to participate with this “natural wonder” hence the slope of the street, the accumulation of the precipitation and the fact that I had to walk through the river just to sit in class or to maybe get food. While my friends are worth wet shoes and socks, sometimes class would be pushing it and there would be times when I weighed walking through lakes and rivers and being present in class or staying where I was with my dry socks and comfortable where I was. Everyone who lives in the city, especially the students and especially me, despises the rain.
Written: 12/29/16 6:03pm
Freshmen are interesting. they make themselves appear as though they know and have experienced everything when it’s the opposite. Personally, I think you have credential after you become an upperclassman. Maybe I’m speaking from an upperclassman perspective.
One rainy day, I was on my regular walk to class. My walk requires me to pass by a freshman dominant dorm. The wind was blowing the rain under our umbrellas, under their orange and blue university umbrellas. I squeeze myself to the front of the pack because I was running late as we waited for traffic to open up when a large gust of wind stunned me and apparently the rest of the pack. “It was the wind, I swear!” a male voice from my left said to his female friend. The cars continued racing by, narrowly avoiding splashing us. He continued to berate the wind to justify whatever happened. Freshmen are interesting.
Written: 10/22/16 2:06pm
Pouring rain causes me to have the same excitement a child has when they see a brand new toy with amazing features is in stores. The child would beg their mother if they could have it and the most satisfying response would be “I’ll think about it.” Meanwhile, if it starts to rain. I’ll longingly gaze out of the window for a chance to run out in the midst of it and to reappear in the dry lands, completely saturated as a foreign testament because in my head, I am a hero. I conquered the rain. Nevertheless, I always end wet. Sometimes, rain falls slowly and from the dry lands, it appears calming, luring people to stay in their beds until their dreams intertwine with their memories, making a bittersweet reality that never existed. Upon leaving the house because of an obligation, it ceases to be an adventure and ends up being an inconvenience. Cyclists end up covered in mud mixed with the grime of the road while walkers slowly trek their way through the rain, their only shelter an umbrella so the drumming resounds like a military march, reminding them of things to do and things incomplete as well as lost dreams. The business man would say that their dreams would be finished after the rain stops, but in some places, the rain never stops. The drivers never learn the technique of whether or not they should walk or run because in their car sits their temporary shelter. When you follow a driver closely, you’ll hear the sigh of relief with the windshield wipers after the sputter of the engine, like a utterance of gratitude for technology. Rain is the physical entity of sadness. I see no true metaphor besides everything is flowing away and picking up debris covered in everything else. Dead and lost leaves slowly drift through small rivers, never existing until the weather shifted. Garbage piles up on the street corner and new shoes splash in the mixture. No one truly rejoices for the rain because it is an inconvenience that follows you around and not something you can truly admire from a distance.
Written: 10/16/16 12:35am
The rain falls without mercy and I stand under its harsh raindrops. The cold seeps onto my skin, adhering my shirt to my body. My anguish is no match for the weather. It’s more of an expression, an epitome of my emotions. I trace the path my tears left on my cheeks, their trails mingling with the rain. I feel a wave of warmth come and go followed by a wave that made me stand up straight. A voice draws me home, but I still feel like I’m drowning, not deliberately of course. I question any motive to walk home, but I remain under the storm. I know for certain that I don’t want any part of this storm, but anywhere I go, anything I say will add to the turbulence. I open my mouth and bare my teeth. I lunge forward with everything I have and throw up my arms. My voice cracks and I force it out even more until it screeches through the night. The golden orb in the street lamp quivers and my fingers follow the sacred dance. The rain pauses and hovers in the air, listening to my cries. My feet tremble, but my voice remains steady until I grasp for air. I cry, “It has rained for 10 years and I’m so tired! We are all tired. Right now, I speak for the world. We want the warm, golden sun again!” The rain continues falling. The thunder rolls again. The lightning strikes the ground, ten feet from where I stand and my hairs stand on their ends. My entire body trembles and I quickly shut my mouth. I say nothing for now. It’s too dangerous. I jolt my feet awake and begin my journey back home. I know for sure I’ll dry on the way there even though the sun isn’t making its debut anytime soon. The pain we carry silences our voices to the point where we struggle to venture outside. For the rain, I let my voice out. For the storm, I try to calm it by raising my voice above it. For the sun, I want to encourage it to come back. Maybe I have the power. Because of the rain, I am no longer afraid because my voice has made an imprint after it had been numb for so long.
I’ve never liked rain maybe because I wore glasses. Once a glasses wearer goes into the rain, visibility becomes non existent because glass doesn’t really repel water. Even if it’s just a gentle mist. I become blinded with droplets.
In the literature world, rain symbolizes change because it washes away all the dirt and in my case, pollen. You can write rain many different ways like with everything else.
She sprinted through the torrent of rain with her arm in front of her to shield the rain, but she still ended up soaking wet
I glanced out the window to find streams of water gently cascading down the window pane.
The first sentence sounded like that girl would much prefer being at home with a cup of hot chocolate than running outside in the rain. It also seems like she’s in a hurry because she’s sprinting. Whatever may of happened to her, she is not in the most pleasant mood. Meanwhile, the second sentence sounded like something out of a romance novel.
I suppose the moral of the story is
You never know what someone is going through just by how they look.
You never know how much someone is going through just by how they look.
You never will know someone as much as they know themselves and sometimes it may be just as confusing for them as well, but you don’t know that.
Be kind and help out, but don’t judge.
God is our only judge.