Here I am, waiting for the patters on my roof to cease, hoping for the rain's final farewell. Standing by my window, a cloak wrapped around me, I long for the warmth of the sun, the comfort of a cloudless sky.
The sound starts to fade, and just when I think it's over, it intensifies again. I watch the low-hanging sky, the streaks of lightning, and my heart thuds in response to the thunder's roar.
It seems the sky sobs.
As time passes, all I can think of is poetry. I am an artist—not as magnificent as the one behind the heavens, but still... The heavens are dark and the stars are hidden, yet I can feel their presence.
There's a gloom in the cold air, a sadness in the relentless ticking of the clock. I glance at the umbrella, fearful I can't survive the storm. Minutes slip into hours; before I realize it, a whole day has passed with the storm raging outside. My soul is too shaken to stay, yet too scared to step out.
But how long can I stay here? How much longer can this shell protect me? Until the streets are flooded? Until night has fallen?
I have to go out and face the rain, even if I'm uncertain whether the sun will shine again. I have to.
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