Friday, April 29, 2005

The gods of rain 

I've always loved storms. The wind and the rain, the way my clothes are saturated and my socks squish as I walk, the violence and the gentleness, it's open to any gods I could imagine.

It's a violent sexuality that I was comfortable with at too early an age.

It's a fun run with friends, splashing and trying not to get splashed, a meaningless game since we were all soaked anyway.

It's a message from the gods that they could kill me and burn my house at any moment, even while spirits like those of my grandfather act to protect me from my own curiousity, curiousity that would have involved opening a door and creating a backdraft that could have killed me.

It's the feeling that I'm never really in love with someone unless I want to make out with them in a rainstorm.

It's a feeling a warmth and fuzzy socks as I sit inside and watch the trees fight invisible winds as the sky turns beautiful shades of gray.

It's the way that thunder still reminds me that my dogs saved my life, waking my parents up during our lightning-caused house fire, the way I pay attention to animals even if I can't yet interpret their messages.

And that's the stream of consciousness produced by reading an entry from a blogger I read at least weekly, Acid man.

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