>After the Rain

>I walked outside this afternoon following a truly (sarcasm) exhilarating (/sarcasm) physics lab and my lungs were greeted with 50 feet of distance between them and a line of nicotine addicts furiously puffing to get their fix of tar for that hour. I pictured myself traipsing through a cloud of mustard gas without a gas mask and held my breath as I quickened my pace for the car.

I could feel their stares on the back of my head. I could taste their judgment on my tongue.

But how could I care? To my left, to my right there was fresh condensation on each car lining the sides of the parking lot. The concrete that bore my steps was damp from recent rainfall, and the sky told me the story of what had just taken place as the belligerent rainclouds ran away from the scene of their attempted drowning.

I had never seen Chatt State look so beautiful before and the air had never smelled so fresh, despite Joe Camel's best attempts to turn it into an addictive stimulant. If it hadn't been slightly chilly my windows woulda been down on the way home.

As I approached my car and was admiring God's way at laughing at the rainclouds, my ears found a girl in her car singing at the top of her lungs to some poppy song that probably wore out its welcome ten years ago. What she was waiting for, or why she was there I have no idea, but she was all there. This girl got the point of a day like today, of the beauty after the storm. All the smokers got was that they could now escape the doorways with their cigarettes.

I feel like God gives me these days when I feel like everything I'm doing is for naught and that I'm stuck in a massive, repetitive rut to remind me that all I have to do to escape the oppression that I perceive is step outside. It helps me remember to slow down and take things slower than I do naturally. If I had one piece of advice for the day, it is this: slow down that hurried gait you demonstrate. Don't look down at your feet when you walk, because you'll miss everybody and everything you're passing, and whatever blessing they're waiting to pass on to you.

Hamilton Barber

The subject of this page is an introverted writer/musician/lunatic from Chattanooga, TN who dabbles in lexical dexterity, unorthodox thoughts on prosperity, and being overwhelmingly undeserving of the privilege of waking up every day. He hopes that everybody who reads these words takes them to heart and leaps higher than he ever could. He reads, thinks, and speaks too much; he listens, works, and loves too little; and he says “I” entirely too often. The words on these pages are not his: they are the words that were given to him.