En Air

1.46am.

1.46 am
Rain. It's all I can hear on the roof outside, like a company of ballerinas in pointe shoes, tip-toeing gracefully. And then less gracefully. And then even less gracefully, until it sounds like those ballerinas are jumping up and down in simultaneous fits of rage. I've always been that strange type of person who loved rain more than sunlight. He never understood that, could never quite grasp my excitement when I heard thunder, and certainly never took part in my inexplicable need to sit watching the rain for hours and hours, silent, with my bare feet in perfect alignment with the teeming showers. That's where I was happiest. With the smell of wet mud overwhelming my senses, the colour of the sky, sharp blues turned to soft dove grey. The sheets of crystals falling and disappearing into the earth, turning it to one huge, liquid mirror. And when the lightning would flash? The thrill down my spine would mirror it, a reminder that I, like the world, was still alive. The harder the rain fell upon my shoulders, the brighter the lightning flashed in the centre of my eyes, the louder the thunder resonated around me, the happier I became. But maybe that was a sign. For just like the rain falling on the warmth of a fingertip, perhaps I too, was always meant to slip away.