It’s raining.
It’s always raining.
And the world cannot help but drip like watercolors from a painting that has been around for a long, long while.

It’s raining.
I asked for it to rain.
I did a rain dance but I didn’t want it to rain this hard, isn’t this just a little too hard because, well, I didn’t ask for this much?

It’s raining.
I never wanted it to rain.
Why is it always raining now when I had already felt the cold chill of a drizzle on my face and now there’s so much more?

It’s raining.
It’s not so bad.
Sometimes I forget about the rain when I go inside and it’s bright and I know I can be free because rain doesn’t stop life from going on.

It’s raining.
Now it’s a thunderstorm.
It sits like a brick in my stomach and infects me like an illness that I cannot shake and yes I asked for the rain but this is too much, so much, and now it is flooding and I cannot keep my head above water and perhaps I’m not resilient enough and perhaps I deserve it and perhaps if I could use my umbrella I would be able to ignore it better.

But I’ve lost my umbrella.

And it’s still raining.