Endless rainy metaphors.

I'm chewing one fruit snack at a time, slowly. I eat the orange and yellow ones first, because every one knows the red and purples are the best. I like to save the best for last. My glasses keep slipping down my face, and I think I should get them tightened. Maybe I'll go tomorrow, but maybe I'll just be. I haven't changed from my Thursday work shirt yet, and my name tag keeps hitting the sliver pendant hanging from my neck. I painted my toenails again last night, and they are bright orange. I like the orange.

I've grown.

Outside, the rain is pelting the ground. The leaves that cover the dirt yield to the powerful surges, their faces turned away from the frightening nourishment. They don't know it's nourishment. That's why they turn away. That's why they cower. And the rain carries on, though misunderstood by the ones that he loves, as the colorful petals will one day bring validation. The aching souls of the newborn plants will stretch, and the droplets will smile at their maturity.

But the 3rd-grade water cycle plays through the mind: evaporation, condensation, precipitation; and the waves flow perpetually, the leaves cower endlessly, and everything continues to grow. Slowly, painfully, rhythmically.

And no one really notices.

Until one day, sitting on my pinkish sheets with orange toes, work clothes, a name tag, and fruit snacks, I remember the many intimate embraces of the icy water pelting down my face. From here, I can look and see my shrunken facade gasping for air, and I can feel the breath in my lungs now.

I look up, and I see sun.

And I've grown.