Writer looking for inner child

Rain rain go away, come again another day.

How appropriate, as I am writing this blog, that it is pouring outside. Rainy days are always my blue days, when I am more likely to see the cup as half empty. Something about gray skies makes me feel gray myself. I just want to wear my baggy shirt and sweats, and be a couch potato all day.

Everything that happens on a rainy day seems less fun, less nice, less joyful. It seems like the rain saps my positive attitude, turning me into a horrid pessimist. Things that on a good day would barely bother me seem to be humongous issues to surmount when it is raining.

As a child, the rain was magical to me. I loved to run around splashing in puddles. It made me feel like a fairy or an adventurer.

When did my thoughts alter so drastically? When did the rainy days lose their dream-like possibilities, and become just a wet and dismal day? Is it part of growing up or have the cares of the world darkened my view of simple pleasures, like catching raindrops in my mouth while spinning? I used to run to the car in the rain laughing. Now it is a hurried dash, hoping not to get even one drop on myself.

Maybe I need to connect again with my childhood simplistic joys and jump in a puddle, because who cares if my pants get wet.

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