Rain was nothing to me but a sign of evil.
As I look at the droplets gradually going from small to big, I became temperamental.
That afternoon, it was the same rain that brings back old memories.
Devastation dawned on me and the rain was laughing at me.
The continuation of mocking drenched me.
As I fall under my knee with the cold wind gashing in.
I knew this is not life with the blurry distinction of tears and rain.
Guilt is not the excuse of my wrongdoing.
My desire of wishing the rain stops and preventing me from travelling back in time was not easily fulfilled.
I dream of the same rain, I look at the same rain from the same window.
I was confined in a cold, dreadful and daunting reality with a mixture of fake rainbows and real thunderstorm.
In that afternoon rain, I saw myself drinking a cup of mocha yet fearing something beyond what I have imagined.
My perfect, rainy afternoon has never been impeccable. When I enjoy the weather, I physically adores it. But when my heart tells me something, the love sinks into the bottom of my core.
It is known as perfect because I am still conscious of the world within me and the reality that is living outside of me.