Rain.

Today I feel like the rain:
grey
and cool
and impartial
to the life that happens
with or without me
before and after me
and during me as well.
My problems
will spill over into next week
an overflowing gutter
of rain water,
dead leaves and twigs,
a cigarette butt
disintegrating.

- - -

It's been raining a lot here. I like it: the chill in the air, the damp air hanging off me like silk, the way everything goes green after a day of heavy downpour. I keep my window open because the sound of raindrops smashing into the ashphalt is soothing. When I hear it, I breath again. I forget how tired I always am. I forget my money problems and how all my friends are travelling and I'm stuck here working two jobs and barely scraping by, barely affording to pay my rent and eat and save money to go to school. Just so I'll get a decent job. Maybe.

I guess I just feel stuck. More stuck than I've ever been in my life. And I feel miniscule and unimportant and beaten down. I don't even know why I'm writing this here, but I guess it's times like this when my writing is in some respects at its best. It's a catharsis I suppose, a release for my tired soul.