I have a deep admiration for the rain.
To sit by a window and watch the raindrops race down the misty glass, closing my eyes and listening to the rumbles of thunder collapsing behind the tree line. Gushes of wind moving through me rather than pushing me down. Storms like that have such a natural ability to stabilize my breathing better than any medicated therapy. I grew so addicted to these weather forecasts.
But honey, when you begin to take into consideration the hurricanes, the flooding, the tsunamis that follow the outwards appeal of a Sunday shower, you will not find it easy to love.
When you step back and observe all the wreckage, you will want to run. You will begin to take back words and retrace steps, I do not blame you for being afraid of something so oblivious. I too am afraid by my inability of not quite being able to pull back the clouds, but you can not then expect the sun to apologize for casting a shadow.
And, even though it is unpredictable at best, I know that these showers, heavy as they may be, insist on pushing out life. These reckless sheets of rain staining the atmosphere, they will establish seed. This life will push its way past earth, breaking ground, bending, twisting, unaware of the certain chaos that introduced it to the sun. It will evolve to reflect the beauty that surrounds it.
But you will never get to know this life. You left long before the clouds rolled in, before the first drop of rain even graced the earth. You were too caught up in the natural disaster.