And then it rained again!

I like rain.

Not the soft-filtered Instagram rain that kisses rose petals or writes sonnets on cafe window panes. Not the verse-worthy drizzle that inspires lovers , poets or Facebook captions. No. I like the real stuff. The grimy, unfiltered, unapologetic kind.

Give me the muddy chaos.

The puddles that swallow shoes whole. The gutters that overflow like a tired man’s silence. The kind of rain that doesn’t care for your umbrella or your carefully planned day or your freshly ironed shirt. It barges in. Soaks through. Makes its presence known not with whispers, but with thuds.

I like how it slaps my balcony; the same balcony where I drink coffee like a philosopher but now stands damp and slippery, like the stage after the play is done and the crowd has gone. A slick concrete reminder that nothing stays picturesque forever.

I like the rain that drenches me when I forget my raincoat, or worse, decide I don’t need one. The kind that mocks my optimism. That teaches humility in seconds. There’s something honest about being soaked through your socks and spine. You’re no longer a curated version of yourself; you’re raw, wet, slightly annoyed, and very real.

Rain, the real rain, doesn’t flatter. It doesn’t beautify. It doesn’t pretend to be metaphoric. It disrupts. It demands attention. It stains and swells and seeps into places you thought were safe and dry. But in that disturbance, there’s truth.

It reminds us that nature isn’t a moodboard. That the world doesn’t exist to match our metaphors.

Rain isn’t always beauty. Sometimes it’s a chore. Sometimes it’s damage. Sometimes it’s exactly what we need; not to feel, but to function. It fills tanks, waters roots, cleans streets, and ruins picnics. It forces us to step out of our poetic bubble and into the wet world that works.

So no, I don’t romanticize every drop.

I respect the ones that inconvenience me.

Because those are the drops that remind me: beauty isn’t always soft, and utility isn’t always pretty.

And maybe, just maybe, those soaking, stubborn rains aren’t here to move us, but to dissolve us. To wear away the varnish of control. To remind us that even the sky has its breakdowns. And when it does, it doesn’t whisper; it floods. It doesn’t ask; it arrives. And in that wild, unwelcome baptism, we’re returned; not to poetry, but to presence. To weight. To the sound of a world that doesn’t wait for our permission to be real.