The Oncoming Storm

          I sit here on a cement block, but the world around me is far from industrial. Surrounded in green, the grass blows quietly in the breeze on an oncoming storm. The air is heavy, yet cool, attempting to relax my body to a sort of sleep as I write. My body sighs as I look around, gray and blue are relaxation colors. Small drops of mist fall from a gray cotton sky, comforting but at the same time somewhat ominous, like there is something behind the innocent drops. Rain is coming, approaching from the distance, and tension is building, but the world is quiet, enveloped in a sort of intense calm. Everyone is waiting in silence, listening, for the storm to come and pass.
          I love the short time before a storm, the atmosphere is relaxing to me and seems to fend away my stress. This is curious, considering the sky is building up to a storm, waiting to be led out. Occasionally I think the clouds predict my feelings, often the sky opens up when I’m feeling my worst. I become the conductor of water bound in wind, and my attitude becomes the rain. I feel a stronger connection to rain than I do to sunshine, life is not always bright and vibrant, but can be dark and seemingly colorless. Rain is always constant, and so the feeling of rain is more relatable to me.
          Waiting for a rainstorm is like waiting to cry. As the world is covered in gray, you anticipate the tears, but fight them, not wanting to admit that side of yourself. But when they come, you sigh, experiencing exponential relief, and the sky is released from its waiting. Perhaps this is why we love rain when we are sad, and why we feel we control rain. It is nearly a substitute for tears, we sometimes feel better after seeing rain, because the water from the sky brings a sort of freshness that gives us hope. It is almost as if the Earth cries for you, as if it feels your pain and wants to sooth it.
           The smell of rain is ten times stronger now, the mist is heavier - the rain storm is coming any moment. The world waits with one feeling, the anticipation of the rainstorm. The atmosphere is a blurred painting made up of blue and gray, and the mist makes the Earth look seemingly like an impressionists painting. It makes me wonder what the view is like from a tree top. Would it appear more abstract? I hurry up and pack up my books and pencil, not wanting my things to get wet. I sniff as I stand up - the smell of rain is almost as breathtaking as the smell of an old book. Deep breaths to take in the smell before I leave. Rain is beautiful, I think, and I would stay in it forever if I could.

To the Singer

Quietly, observing, waiting, hoping
To you I'm still invisible
I watch you laughing, dancing, singing,
Hoping one day you'll say hello

I'm too afraid to talk to you -
I go over phrases in my head
Try to come up with something new
But I scare myself instead

I know your smile well,
it lightens up my day
I don't know exactly when I fell,
But its too late to run away

I know I'm still invisible,
You'll probably never see me,
So sing for all eternal,
With the same bright voice of glee.