But for some reason I stay out.
After a half hour of walking around in circles I am soaked. It’s time to return to the museum. Instead I find myself returning to my sabatical in the park because it won’t be open for another hour and a half.
The rain has worked itself down into a steady drizzle but the damage has already been done; everything is already wet and the benches (and the park) are free of people. There are still a few out exercising though I imagine it’s not for lack of wanting to be inside.
Everyone with a purpose – I’m just outside to be outside.
Running my fingers over the wet slats of a bench I find the comforting sliminess of old wood. When I lay on the bench a new wave of cool dampness rushes through the material of my shirt desperate to be warmed by my skin. It seems like it has to struggle but eventually the water makes it through my jeans. The drizzle on my face feels perfect, tears on my face that aren’t mine. The pain of nature washes away humanities mistakes – the ultimate gift. Droplets perfectly pop on the leaves.