Following the Flow

In a city where it rains for days, sometimes it’s necessary to escape. It seems we’ve pushed through the deepest depths of winter and should be making the turn into spring. But the forecast tells a different tale: rain for the next seven days.
I hear the water falling from my bath in the morning. I see it dripping from where I sit at my table during breakfast. I feel it on my skin every time I go outside. And I fall asleep listening to it against my window at night.
It begins to get to you; it has an insidious affect upon your well-being. The grey morning sun hanging lazily in the sky, the light it emits –dim at best after being filtered through so much wet cloud –is nothing short of unremarkable. Everyday the same: wet and grey.
I mount my escape in these conditions. My traveling companion is ten years old, he is a dog of indistinguishable breed, a product of the pound. On concrete streets, passed the sounds of honking horns, away from the wafting smells of restaurants, we walk towards the one thing that can erase all this wetness.
Lower and lower, we climb over curbs, crosswalks, and overpasses as greenery replaces the dull city landscape. Blanketed by trees we transcend the city into the paths of parks and the shores of the ocean. Here, with the great mass of water at our feet, the rain begins to melt away.
Suddenly it all feels okay. The endless stream of water that falls from the sky leads somewhere. It leads to here, the ocean. And in front of this massive quantity of water the rain feels insignificant. Because no matter what, it does have an end, and I’ve found it.
We frolic in the park, on the beach, until we’re soaked and muddy. Then it’s back to the city streets, traffic, and the rain. But for a moment, down by the ocean, it seemed to all disappear.
With a fresh outlook I continue about my life as usual. No longer does the rain get me down. I know where it leads. And I can always follow it.