A nice rain. Not heavy, but steady, thick. Soaking. A good rain for long walks after dark, thinking.
It is a warm rain, or at least not a cold one. The air is mild, the raindrops cool. Rain is a nice white noise in which thoughts can swim more easily than a dead silence - they don’t feel so exposed in the encompassing hiss and humidity. Or perhaps the rain simply occupies that part of the mind that thoughlessly gathers input for consideration and will latch onto any distraction that promises respite from the more difficult ideas bubbling up from below. In the end it is just rain, a wet and pleasant invitation to walk in the dark.
What sensuality we are blessed with in these bodies, which are the best possible bodies in this best of all possible worlds. I suppose that’s what we get for having evolved here, for being pressed into our shapes like playdough squeezed into human shaped holes in the falling raindrops. Yet…. how much closer to the ideal we could be, without minds. We could perfect our sensuality, if not for doubts and self-examination - we could become the perfect recepticals of all the sensations we have evolved to know as pleasant. We are halfway there as it is, designed for this world and its warm rains, but having perfected our reception of ecstacy, every breath and every step could be orgasm. We could stand, like sheep, and know nothing but the joy of existance, hedonism’s euclidian ideal. We might as well be dead. We might as well be a round peg, turned carefully to fit, just right, into a round hole and do nothing more than fill it.
This rain, it makes me think we are not halfway there, but halfway away and running hard in the opposite direction. I think these dark thoughts, bubbling up from below, are everything we have to stand on, if we ever hope to see out of our little round hole.
Good job.