The voice of the wind carrying the mist that rumbles higher in the clouds. Many wish for the sun, or a clear night with which to study the stars.
I do not wish for these things. Twenty-eight years and some of my most comforting days are found when rain comes down, and washes me clean. Washes this land clean… both of which will dirty in only a small while afterward.
I am not without my faults. Like the dirt and stench that will eventually cling itself to me again after a rain, my true side comes out, reclaims the surface. I suppose after all of this time, the hardest thing I have found, is when to simply accept it, and know that the next rain may not be for a while.
But when the rain does lavish me with its comfort and song, I am often left with a feeling of invigoration. I could walk days, months in the rain. Seeing it form the lowlying clouds on the next fjord, and its water that trickles down into the lakes, streams and rivers… it reminds me of what I wash away, and that it collects somewhere, if not through a refined process.
I don’t have a family. I don’t have a love in my life. I don’t have a companion, only dear friends which I care for, protect and support. But wandering between them, through them and with them, I often see the love they have. I become jealous and bitter at it sometimes, but I cannot fault them. The envy of man, or of what he possesses, is often drawn by what one refuses to have.
Do I refuse to have love? Maybe. Maybe I am just not ready for it, and maybe I will never be. With my sword and my body, I protect those that I love, even if the love is only wayward to friendship. It is my lot in life.
The warrior… the rain… they share very common things. They help shape landscapes, form new life, but when they’ve completed their task, they move on. Perhaps this is why I identify with it so well.
But without the rain, much like the warrior, the land would be devoid of life. Devoid of meaning. We carry the blood of many, and draw the blood of others when they dare trespass in our domain. And when it is done, it is washed away, cleansed, perhaps to be found again later on, like the dust and stench.
But be weary. Like the rain, the warriors can flood you, change your very being and you will not be able to combat it easily.
The rain… how iconic of my existence. Too much of it is dangerous, not enough is as well. We appear when we are needed, and not welcomed otherwise. The sunshine is preferred, and warm days welcomed. That is why people love the rain, because it does not come often, or stay forever.
Like the warrior.