There's something so potent about rain. The warm, summer rain which makes South Florida hot and muggy, coating the inside of my lungs, warming me from the inside out. I've fallen in love with the fertile smell of rain on the wind, the way the colors of the world are brought to life before a sudden onslaught of water and lightning. It makes everything so vibrant and breathing, if I were a painter I'd be jealous of the palette God has in his hand. There's nothing I can do to imitate such aliveness.

The pure sound of rushing wind, of splashes of raindrops against my windows, brings me back to a younger version of myself, drunk on the wonder of such beauty. I still close my eyes and let my body remember such youth, before society could taint the rain with it's ugly dirty pollution. When I could be ecstatic with the short freedom of dancing and running through the puddles of fallen rain, pretending to be a plant which survived off the warm H2O pooling in the concrete streets.

I imagined myself growing taller, leaner, more graceful with each breath. I swore I could hear my bones turning into chloroplast, my hands into leaves. I longed for the chance to be rooted to the spot. I desired to know the peaceful life of an oak tree.

Now, as I sit here, typing about the rain, I hear it as my music against my roof. I step outside, and let my body feel a couple drops against my skin; the tepid water rising gooseflesh. The wind brings with it the smell of hot summer and a cool fall. I discover that my naive, childish longing has only grown in proportion to my age and knowledge.

I shall always love the feel of rain, the embrace of the warm wind, and the hot, summer nights which brings with them a sense of nostalgia.