It's like trying to remove the poisonous venom of a snake after a bite. Sometimes the writer's quill is pressed forcefully lest the heart of the writer die of poisoning. So the story continues...
No, it doesn't fall down mildly this time,
No, it doesn't come with a soft breeze,
It rains, it pours;
Forget cats and dogs - minuscule metaphors in comparison...
The drops strike.
They strike, they pierce.
It started like a normal day; clear skies, birds chirping, people were starting to move. It was a warm morning.
In the city, dirty puddles. Orange water. Potholed roads. Pick your step well, lest you literally soil yourself. So I walked, picking spots till safely on the pavement.
And then the spears. And everything disappeared.
They came down with the weight of one thousand Mjolnir hammers. Hard and fast. It rained, the cold enveloped my whole body, a bit of it, my soul. Where had the shelters gone to? There was no place to hide under, no place to run to.
No voice could be heard in this downpour. No singing this time. Heavy short breaths. Wiping the wetness from my eyes, so I could see; forward. I could not go back, I had to endure, till the mist dissolved, till the downpour died down, till I could start to make out what was reality.
Sometimes the rain, it hurts you.