My Soliloquy
It's a dark, gloomy day. The sky is covered with massive grey clouds, and it's pouring. People are running past me, some with umbrellas, some covering their heads with anything from hoodies to plastic bags. But I sit under a barren tree, drenched in rain. I love the rain; it makes my heart sing. Rainy days like this one are the best days for writing my emotions, for bringing out the poet in me. There is an inexplicable magic to such days that makes me whimsical and expressive, yet with a touch of melancholy. And when it rains, some supernatural power forces me to go wild with reckless abandon, not caring about getting my clothes or hair wet or catching a cold. So when it rains and others stay indoors in the warmth of their homes, I venture outside. I’m sitting on the east side of Regent’s Park, outside a tall graceful building. It is the middle of March, and it is chilly and windy. I can hear the pitter-patter of rain as it falls from the barren branches of the tree. I could ...