I love Listening to the Rain: Written December 24, 2009

I love listening to the rain. It has a sad sort of classic beauty. Like a woman who gave up true love to follow the life she'd dreamed about and wished for--only to discover that the many things she had didn't matter. The fur coats that lined her wardrobe could never keep her warm. Her giant hearth was as cold as the granite from which it was carved; it was certainly not the centerpeice of a comforting home. Her staff and employees, as pleasent as they may be, went home. And at the end of the day, she had nothing. Nothing but shadows cast by the cool-colored lamps that lined the walls and halls. Nothing but the chilled marble floors that echoed every creak of the giant house settling in. Nothing but the empty raindrops slapping the panes of glass ruthlessly out of anger and regret. If only she had heard the emptiness in the rain those years ago. If only she had heeded its sorrow-filled cries of warning. Then, perhaps, she would have a home and not a house; perhaps she would have children rather than staff; perhaps she would have love and warmth and laughter and sunshine. But instead, all she hears are the raindrops sliding wistfully from the sky down her cheeks into a puddle of memories. And that's why I love listening to the rain.