It won't stop raining. I am ill with the desire to make it stop. Wind and wetness lash against the window pane. The shades are down. I wont look. I can only hear it: nature doing what it must unforgivingly. Violence. Malevolence. Rain. It makes me feel fragile.
When I was a child I'd swing the window open and stare out at the heavy, grey sky without really looking. All I wanted was to feel the wind and the light sprays of moisture against my face. I can't do that anymore. It reminds me of the melancholy I felt as a child. I don't know what I was melancholic about. There was nothing but my innocence. It must have been the greater sensitivity, but I don't know what that is either, or rather, I don't know if it can be explained. The greater sensitivity: it's empathy with an unknown cause.
In the car the rain would stream down the windshield. The child's eyes would follow the progression of a raindrop to its final conclusion. Poetic fluidity. A raindrop sliding down a window pane is inimitable, irreplaceable. Maybe that's what the greater sensitivity is: to be taken by a raindrop.