I cannot stand snow or ice or sleet. But rain, rain is the most magnificent weather there is. I thrive in rain. Rain is my element. And it is even better mixed with a bit of thunder and lightening. I am sure my soul is embodied and mirrored to myself in a rain storm.
And I have decided that one day I should like to run out in a gentle spring shower in bare feet, and then kiss someone hard on the lips. I am sure it would be one of those trembling moments where I�m sure the beauty of life would kill me. Some beauty just seems too heavy and poignant to be borne by the human soul, and yet survive it to see another day, and perhaps another such moment. I think to hang suspended in such beauty for longer than a moment would crush the body with a vibrant, angelic sigh. That�s how I�d like to die. I would like to die in a passionate, screaming crush of beauty.
Fog is really marvelous too. I miss days when the thick draperies of fog would roll in from the ocean and cling to the cookie cutter stucco houses and neatly manicured trees and shrubs. Fog has a magical faerie glow, and when it would settle upon the humble suburbs I dwelled in, the whole seemed transformed into a medieval fantasy with fauns and elves and dryads lurking round every corner.
And fog made the world seem so much bigger. It would obscure the objects right in front of you. You could stand on a tiny rise of earth, and feel like you were on top of the very highest mountain. For nothing could be seen in any direction beside the fog. It was so close, so impenetrable, and it seemed so never ending. Fog fascinated me as a child, and it continued to fascinate me as I grew older. The strange wonder of fog can never really cease. It so well obfuscates our plain, monotonous worlds, that it seems anything is suddenly possible.