Somebody That I Used To Know

They call it petrichor, though I don't feel that captures it. It's too scientific, as if white-clad men walked through fields with clipboards, noting down this or that, and then sat down around a wooden table to discuss what they could call their experience. Analytically speaking, the word petrichor works. It's an ichor on rocks, probably water, ergo rain. But that enters through your eyes, not through the hairs in your nose. 

Petrichor is heavy. It smells heavy, not as if gravity changed, but I feel my face somehow pulled towards the ground. Petrichor nudges me to prostrate. Even as I sit here to write this, my back is hunched more noticeably than I would normally notice it, and I take glances at the open window which is slanted to my left. Raindrops are appearing on it. Dots of whiter light, from the sky, they are bringing the sky down into my window. Soon there's an accumulation, un saupoudrage of firmament pieces, known to evaporate or be replaced in the near future, but for now attached. Now and again, one slides down, tear-trickling. I wonder if the sky is crying, or whether God is. As a child, I must have had that thought, that rain was Dieu en larmes. Later on, my opinion must've changed because I had the thought that rain was God pissing, as if the vulgarity of it implied that it wasn't supposed to be there. Then in adolescence, I learned about the water cycle, and it no longer made sense to talk about God and the rain in the same sentence. And now, after an indeterminate amount of time has passed and it's still now, I like rain. I cannot really distinguish a non-nebulose reason, but there's something quiet about it. Something guaranteed, yet uncertain. Like it's there, and it's coming down and it's happening, and I can have emotions associated with it, and that it passes, and while it's here, it can be enjoyed. It's a phenomenon that happens often enough that I consider it unnecessary to give it much thought. I know people who hate the rain, who complain when it comes, who give it a personality and idolise it as a deity whose hate is channeled into him or her who deified the weather. I don't think these people are stupid, but I think it's unnecessary to bitch about rain. In a way, it's like procrastination - something to express that comes from a greater but more deep-seated misunderstanding about pain and its connection to life events. I feel though as if I'm now having a bitch about people having a bitch. Smooth. It makes me feel knot-tied inside, as if I'm restraining myself, trying not to say some things so as to appear a certain way, but then trying to be liberating. The paradoxical struggle.

I'm analytical and logical-thinking, but when it comes to rain, it just falls and then it doesn't and then it does and then it doesn't. I like the smell of the earth after though. That's what I wanted to say. Thoughts like the previous paragraph of jungle-understanding are boring me now. I like that, too.