Is it raining at your house?

It is raining down on me. Again.

From the inside. The pain.

Pushing me aside. To the slow lane.

The rain.

— — —

I see the image of a window and raindrops, each of them a world of its own.

My rain washes the streets of my gray town. The gray people. Gray is the color of the healthy.

I wish I was gray.

But, no. God had to play with watercolors.

Sometimes I am red. The color of fear. Sometimes I am black. The color of depression.

The green of mental torture, the orange of my manias, the purple of suffering.

I wish I was gray.

The raindrops on my window. Gray too.

Can the watercolors be washed by the rain? Becoming unsaturated?

While it is still raining, I am thinking. When the rain washes the colors away, it leaves the white paper.

I need lots of rain. To become white. The color of Saints.

The gray people do not care, they like the gray.

I could be white. Because of my watercolors.

I can be white.

Is it raining at your house too?