The grass is always greener on the other side. Especially if it’s soaked day in and day out with the tears of the sky. There’s something so dreary about the constant overcast that makes it worse than the cold (that it never is) but wet-that’s the type of reminder that settles in your bones, never shy to remind you of the misery that everyone knows is coming. On day two, everyone is attempting to be in good spirits, “just a little rain, water off a duck’s back”. By day thirty-two, everyone is dragging their heels, resigned to living the tortured remains of fois gras. It’s one of the prettiest cities in the world, so clean-why would you ever want to leave there? Because it’s so mild that any art produced plays second fiddle to nature, and none of the public transit actually connects to any of the other public transit, and they’d rather buy armed guards than keep fares at a reasonable rate. It’s a city based on covering up its undesirables (or sending them one-way tickets to Calgary) every time it hosts another frivolous world party, and bohemian lifestyles go to waste. But the worst is the rain- the incessant, piddling, dragging, constant, grey, motivation draining, sock soaking, unshakeable rain that whittles down the creative spirit until it commits suicide a thousand times in a minute, praying for a monsoon.
When you are born somewhere, you can’t ever truly escape it, no matter how hard you try to ensure that a particular physical distance separates you, emotionally you’re always just one foot outside the throes of that rain. These days, when it acid rains, it pours.
i think this one was an invented prompt, because the initial one “living through a solid month of rain” seems awfully specific to my situation, so the titled one is one that i found at the end, though it’s not directly named as the prompt. i don’t know. either way-i was feeling some feelings about vancity. shit.
**i have no idea what “resigned to living the tortured remains of fois gras” means, but it’s a compelling sentence, no?