Apr 2014
My dreary Sunday drive with A Fine Frenzy is interrupted by a text message:
“Why do I wish he would text me? Maybe it’s the rain.”
After reminding her that he is the biggest ******* in America, I hope to ignore my inner English major and continue overanalyzing the lyrics of “Dream in the Dark.” However, as the squeaky cadence of my windshield wipers crescendos, the weather practically demands my attention.
She doesn’t need him and I don’t need you, but the rain never yields to assurance. It seeps through your imperfections and drenches every insecurity. Liquified doubt envelops the pavement, while the length of each red light seems just short of an eternity. I grow frustrated with the way the rain falls on my windshield, and having to rely on my wipers every three seconds for temporary clarity. I grow frustrated with how many three-second durations make up this car ride, and the way the squeaking mocks me, and how the rain doesn’t care about making it difficult to read the street signs.But the fact of the matter is I have somewhere to be, and I can’t let the rain prevent me from leaving where I’ve always been, even if only for the afternoon.
Under a blue sky, it is clear that she doesn’t need him and I don’t need you. I just wish this weather didn’t make everything so difficult to see.
So yeah, maybe it is the rain, but **** the rain on a day like this.
“Why do I wish he would text me? Maybe it’s the rain.”
After reminding her that he is the biggest ******* in America, I hope to ignore my inner English major and continue overanalyzing the lyrics of “Dream in the Dark.” However, as the squeaky cadence of my windshield wipers crescendos, the weather practically demands my attention.
She doesn’t need him and I don’t need you, but the rain never yields to assurance. It seeps through your imperfections and drenches every insecurity. Liquified doubt envelops the pavement, while the length of each red light seems just short of an eternity. I grow frustrated with the way the rain falls on my windshield, and having to rely on my wipers every three seconds for temporary clarity. I grow frustrated with how many three-second durations make up this car ride, and the way the squeaking mocks me, and how the rain doesn’t care about making it difficult to read the street signs.But the fact of the matter is I have somewhere to be, and I can’t let the rain prevent me from leaving where I’ve always been, even if only for the afternoon.
Under a blue sky, it is clear that she doesn’t need him and I don’t need you. I just wish this weather didn’t make everything so difficult to see.
So yeah, maybe it is the rain, but **** the rain on a day like this.
