It never occurred to me that I would miss the rain until I waited 88 days for the first real rainfall last November here in this state of perpetual drought.
I remember feeling inexplicably happy when I woke up that Tuesday morning to the sound of rain pounding against the brick pavement in the courtyard outside my window despite the fact that I'd never been too fond of its presence back home in Seattle. It took me months to realize that rain was one of those things in my life that was unconsciously tied to my sense of belonging; I belonged to the dreary, drenched days as much as they belonged to me—even the characters in my Chinese name mean light rain, as if the universe was clever enough to make me want to ascribe some sort of poetic meaning to my place in this world overall.
I miss the rain now more than ever as I sit here in the prayer room two weeks shy of turning in my Roman Civ final exam and sixteen days shy of leaving California for three months; I'm going to be saying goodbye to my first year of college and yet I'm suddenly plagued with apathy and doubt and homesickness and the projected 87˚F high for tomorrow is doing nothing to inspire love for Berkeley as of late. As sad as I am that this is the last week of instruction, I can't wait to finally be done with it all and go home, the place where I can read novels to the sound of rain falling on the rooftops again, away from this mess of reality where the colors are too saturated and people too vibrant.
It's ridiculous, isn't it? What right do I have to be feeling anything less than contentment over my world-class education and the endless summer days? Wasn't the whole point of going to college 800 miles from home to get away from everybody and everything I knew so I could rediscover myself again? I hate that I'm burning out already, but it was inevitable—I've been struggling to stay on top of it all for weeks and now that the end is in sight, I'm so ready to make it through the last days of my freshman year at Cal.
.gif by Kei, from Kotonoha no Niwa