I found myself as I often do: running through the rain without a jacket. “What the fuck!” I exclaimed as rain shifted from small drops to bigger, pounding ones upon my face. Thunder cracked overhead, startling me. I took a moment of rest under an awning, breathing heavily with a mixture of exercise-induced joy and a twinge of fear.
My roommate Solitaire and I went to a concert a few weeks ago to see one of their favorite bands: Insignificant Other. During the show, the lead singer Sim challenged the audience by drawling sweetly, “you know… usually by this point, people have been, y’know, moshing and crowd surfing and stuff…” Thus, a mosh pit opened up. Solitaire and I went from being two of the only people dancing and singing along to two of many people getting thrown around to a powerpop song.
Afterward, Solitaire mentioned in a sore, sweaty, but content haze, “this is what it is to live, y’know?” I agreed wholeheartedly. In a mosh pit (which I had never experienced before), I could only focus on one thing: staying upright. Adrenaline and the chaos of random movement made faces dizzying around me. All I knew was movement, collision, and music. Running through the rain makes me feel the same way.
Rain has always had a way of waking me up. As my gaze fell on the water bouncing around the slick black pavement, a short clip of a memory melded into my field of vision.
I was in middle or high school, waiting for the morning school bus. It was gray to the point of being almost tinted blue, and the air, not cloying like it is here in Virginia, was chilly. Water ran down the saturated street in waves. It formed shapes almost like the lines of a topographical map, jagged and organic at the same time. This water did not statically cling to the ground to passively create puddles. Instead, this water was on the prowl and determined to sneak towards me. It was beautiful, and I had never seen anything like it before. “I’m going to remember this,” I thought. And I did.
The bus arrived to interrupt my thoughts. Here I am walking home now, grasping wildly at words to describe a memory ebbing away as I type. The rain has stopped. Sweetness hits my nose as the mild air surrounds me. My chest, though not completely sound, is lighter than it has been in a week that felt like a month. I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive.