I have a preference for snow flakes. They speak to me: they whisper individual snippets about voyages not traveled, about wafting through pristince clouds, their innocence resonates. Yet its the rain drops, that attack the soil, that wet both body , and at times, the soul that have an unmatachable complexity for those who wish for those who see.
The sort of rain that speaks volumes is the rain that seems to fight its way through the atmosphere, descending violently after, an achingly humid, summer’s day. The acidity of modern life in the big city is, in a violent way, washed away by a languid summer thunderstorm.
Suddenly, it rushes in and just as suddenly it runs away to wash away the noise of every day existence in another corner of the city. So next time you hear that thunder roll embrace its existential kiss for you maybe the better for it.
After the rain has gone the sound of silence may purchase you a moment of sanity that your soul, unkown to you, ached for.