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I’m driving, always driving. It’s raining. It’s always raining.

Sometimes: The rain is torrential. The windscreen wipers flip back and forth at such speed that I am sure they will detach from their housing the fly off across the highway. The drops of rain come down hard and fast; flung furiously from the heavens. Wind howls around me and the car shudders under the onslaught. Each raindrop is so big; it must, surely, contain a cup’s worth of water. I pull over, on the shoulder, and wait for the rain to pass, cringing as the weighty splash back from passing trucks is hurled against me again and again.

Sometimes:  The rain is heavy and constant for so long that I forget it is there. My mind wanders to other things. For a moment (a minute, an hour) I think my thoughts and the rain is gone. And then something – maybe the texture of the rain, or a bump in the road or even just my mind itself reminds me that it’s raining.  In those moments-of-remembering the insides of my torso – the organs and so forth – reorient themselves to be pointing in a different direction. My heart swaps places with my uterus.

And then the world rights itself and though I am straining to see through the watery windscreen, I can drive on. I buckle down and focus on steering my treacherous path.

Sometimes: The rain is nothing more than a fine drizzle on an empty road. Only the squeal of the windscreen wipers shuddering across the mostly-dry screen reminds me of my watery albatross.

Sometimes: I am tired. So tired. I am tired of the rain and of peering through the rain splashed windows. My head aches and my back screams and my lids feel heavy under the burden of it all. I long for sun and for laughter and someone to take the wheel. But the rain never stops and the road never ends.

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