It's Raining Again--Guy

It’s Raining Again



The rain poured onto the dark streets of Atlanta. Even at night the streets would still steam up. It was always hot here. Them billows of steam created a never ending swamp or so it would seem. It was just that this swamp swarmed with big buildings and urban culture instead of old oak trees and gaters. How much difference is there really between the two though? I tell ya, they both believe in respect, both believe in money and they both love they hometowns. Born and raised in the back woods as opposed to being born and raised in back alleys—that’s about all the difference. The kids in the woods, they play with snakes, while them in the city they prefer playing with needles they find. Them country folk they shoot for fun, but then again so do them city folk.

Back before the drought, it had been raining on and off for a solid month, or so it would seem. You know, that was the thing about Georgia then, if you didn’t like the weather, ya just had to wait fifteen minutes or so. It would change. Not that many people complained cause they was just happy to have a coolness in the air when they sat on they porches or side walks. The kids loved it cause they feet wouldn’t burn when they walked down the streets to see a friend. The men loved the green grass that grew in they yard. They knew a competition was going on against they neighbors, even though it was always unspoken and the winner never said. The churchgoers, they hear stories told of Noah, while they kids look through windows, praying they wont see someone float by. It was a rainy night in Georgia that night, and the streets still steamed.

At one in the morning no one wants to be on the streets of Atlanta; not the cops, not the homeless, not even the criminals-- they just doing they jobs. It was still faintly raining as one man looked over his shoulder while turning between to tall buildings. It was too dark and too late for anybody to care about this man, as long as he don’t care about them. But they was safe, his thoughts and cares were only for the rain. He slowly started talking to himself, just barely audible as he walked.

“It’s raining again. It’s always raining.” He shook the water off his head, only to have more rain take its place. “No matter how far I go, or how long I walk, it never stops. It pours on me. Supposed to make things wash away, them cleansing waters, but never for me.” He was starting to sound a bit crazy, his emotions getting the best of him. “The rain only makes all this pain and suffering dig deeper into my skin, makin it hide its face from the water and take shelter in my very soul. Seems like the only thing rain can do is hide my tears.” And, oh that man was right. That rain came down so hard that it was almost impossible to see his face at all, let alone tears.

“Nobody can see me cry. It’s not my place in the world to show my agony. I’m supposed to be strong! Ain’t nothin’ can harm me!” He was screaming now, thrashing his fist about like a preacher speaking of Hell, but he never took his hands out of his pockets. “What am I without this though; another face in the crowd of wounded travelers begging for a way out? The man stopped talking, hung his head low and walked. He walked down a road he had never seen. A final whisper escaped him, a single bubble in the swamp of a city. “It’s always raining.”

As that one man walked through the alleys between the tall buildings, ranting to no one and everyone the rain picked up. When the weather changed, it didn’t always change for the better. There was a gunshot that night on the rainy streets of Atlanta and they still steamed.

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