𝐅𝐔𝐆𝐆𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐀

𝐏 𝐑 𝐎 𝐋 𝐎 𝐆 𝐔 𝐄

I love the rain, love the sounds of it when it smashes on the hard ground, love the odour it leaves after it wets woods and plains, love how the sky turns grey when it’s about to come, and how comforting the sky looks when it stops raining.

I mean, it's normal, loving such a simple thing as the rain, but not now. Now I should hate the rain. I should find it horrible, because it's fogging my vision and slowing my movements, making it difficult for me to keep running, especially because I'm running to save my life.

But how could I ever hate it? I love it; I love the way it slips down my skin. The way it wets my clothes, making them attach even more to my already wet skin could be potentially annoying for some, but I adore it. It’s probably the fact that this is proof that I'm no longer locked up. I’m drenched but I’m fucking free, free like a butterfly. 

My mother used to say that I was a butterfly that loved the rain. I never understood what she meant by that. Sometimes I used to think she meant it as a compliment, others as an insult, and still today I'm not sure. But that's why I started liking the rain because I wanted to be like a butterfly that loved rainy days.

 I would ask her what she means by that comparison, but we no longer speak. I hope she is doing well.

I keep running and running. Slowly the fear is leaving my body and happiness is overwhelming me, my vision is a blur, but that doesn’t stop me. I know where to go.