I love the way the rain falls from only one spot on a tin roof, as if over time nature's bent the rusty old tin into a spout for tiny sidewalk gardens below. If it weren't for the valuables in my bag, I'd toss my old Van Gogh umbrella in the street and walk where the trees don't cover and get completely soaked.
I see how vibrant the green grows when it rains and rains for days, and I can't help wonder if somewhere in our primordial past we drew life from the storm too, life that we're missing out on in our fancy rain boots and oversized coats. What if we aren't getting the full experience of the air we breathe and the sun that warms us because we're living under artificial roofs, surrounded by paneling and drywall and cement, breathing recycled oxygen, staring brainlessly out our glass windows.
What if we could be so much more? Stronger. Wiser. Greater. The knowledge and the intelligence of peoples who spend their whole lives in forests is different, not inferior. They see sharper and farther. They move faster and stronger. They know which foods are safe and which aren't. We'd be dead in a week in their shoes. And we'll never know, because none of us has the courage to find out. We'll never give up our technological comfort and our Pumas and blue jeans. You or I or anyone else.
But I can't help wonder, if I could just get out in that rain, if I'd get just a taste of it, just for a moment. If I tilt my head back and let the sky wash off all my makeup and pretense, fill my mouth, run down my chest and neck, for just one minute, will I be more alive?
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