February 6, 2017
It is six in the morning. It is raining. I know that to many, it is not a thing to be desired, not mainly because we had just gone through a small, yet rather potent, storm just over a fortnight ago, but more so because today happens to be Monday. And if Mondays already bear a stain of reproach, — it (and me) wondering why or how — imagine a rainy Monday! Imagine the dread.
Rainy days will always find a harbor in my soul — always. It matters not on which day it chooses to fall. For who can really deny the dulcet symphony it composes as it strums each blade of grass, bows every branch of trees, fingers each foliage of shrub, and percusses every lamppost, every rooftop, sidewalk, the streets and such — instruments that it plays with celestial skill? I guess many can. Just as a new song doubtless fades to staleness over time, so too must rain. I admit. Too much is too much, in the end. I however will never come to contemn it. At least, I don’t believe I ever can.
Below is an entry I wrote originally in Blogger seven years ago. Thematically, it talks about rain; the overtones however differ:
The original title of the blog entry is It Rained. Having come to realize the crisis to which this piece of literature points to was a significant turning point in my life, I meant to retitle it to The Frondescence of Rebellion, and post it as a standalone entry, yet I had a changed in heart. I lacked the courage as well. It is best to leave behind what had come to past, a gem I know all too well. But the question remains unanswered: When will I learn?
Indeed, when will I ever learn?