On occasion, I like to take my mind out for a walk and stroll the streets of thought to hear what the rain has to say. For we’re alike (the rain and I)—our words falling only to puddle in the most inconvenient of places where people look down on us. No need to worry though. Not everyone is accustomed to it.
Every cautious step takes me further and further away from the high-rises of brightly lit lies and deceptive expectations. A city where common sense and logic are no longer accepted as currency. I remember getting high in the alleyways of “What if?” and panhandling at the intersection of What Might Have Been. If it weren’t for the generosity of people looking to profit off me, I would’ve never found my way out of there.
As I continue my trek through this wasteland I built and call home, I notice that this drizzle is the same as it was back then. And like freshly fallen tears, they’re warm to the touch.
No longer am I a person to stare out their window in hopes of finding an answer to a question no one asked. I’ve sobered enough to understand how agonizing a smile can be on a person strung-out on prefabricated phrases laced with optimism. Their mantra of “Living in the moment” still breaks my heart and I pray that when the high dies down, they can find their own way to accept themselves.
Eventually, this dreary weather will come to an end. For now, I’ll keep it company a little while longer. I’ll ignore the urge to pick a few flowers of inspiration along the way, if I happen to see any.
To the me still wandering, it’s okay to be depressively content.