Raining Ballerina

Ballerina dancing in the rain

Raining Ballerina

You sit down the harsh cement shielding your fragile body, as you lean backwards, the red and purple hues of your flowing dress spanning out around you. Cold from the walls and floor seep into your body, chilling your bones, as you attempt to blink away the prickling tears. Loosing the battle the tears are freely allowed to flow down your flushed cheeks. Time had crept away from you, leaving you with no audition. Mimicking, soft clouds begin to dance and assemble, creating a large, darkening cluster. With closed eyes, you begin to feel the first few wet drops. They clatter noisily onto nearby trashcan, the sound echoing off the looming walls, which surround you menacingly. The rhythm increases, as the water falls heavier intertwining with the salty drops on your cheeks. Water advances on your dress, darkening the pattern of red and purple tones which pool across the floor. Watching fascinated you observe the transparent stream being created, which carries small specs of dirt, as it snakes across the pavement, cleansing its every target. Attached to the opposite wall, you admire the slow trickle of the stream, escaping its steel prison, glistening in the small light of a close streetlamp. Air hangs heavy around you, as the rain shower is accompanied by a heavy mist which steals your remaining oxygen.

Water is falling heavier now, and you watch in admiration as it combines with the mud, the backsplash patterning your dress with the most intricate design. Removing your shoes, placing the soaked and worn protectors close, as you advance further into the powerful shower. A small puddle consisting of mud and cold water beckons for the jumps and echoing laughs of a child. You leap. This move is identical to those you once created, when your laugh would echo off every close item, the water splashing your feet. A time when dance was an expression of yourself, of your feeling and upmost desires, rather than a chore or job. A time when a dance meant soaking your dress, twirling in the fresh garden, so that the drops would be thrown off, colored beautifully by the guarding sun shining high from above. When the most beautiful thing was a rain shower for it meant you could express yourself freely, joined by nothing but the purest nature. 

Your feet glide along the wet concrete joining the intricate, wet waves. Soaring through the air, pulling with you splashes, which appear to soar through the air, before joining the rest. The wetness flinches as you as you balance on your foot, the fabric moving softly all around you. Red and purple mix and glide as the air flings droplets of water off, leaving the dress to be a sprinkler of colorful hues, light reflecting in it. Hands trickle through an ocean, barely grazing the concrete as they soar into the air, accompanied by wasps of wetness, which paints your wild hair. Your body flows freely, the water washing away the heavy strains on your body. Mud spirals thread the air, as your legs move, splattering across the fabric around you. Specks of water and soil pattern your feet as you dance softly across the rough asphalt.

Fresh, soft green scents flow into your nose as the water continues to cleanse its surroundings. The droplets of magic begin to slow, their rhythm chasing. Your body follows as it weighs you down, yet somehow continues to lift your spirit up as the rushing rainbow starts to fade. Disappearing clouds and abandoning rain is accompanied by the refreshing warmth of the brightening sun. Its light gleams off your dress bringing with it hope as the feeling of serenity washes through your body. Like the remaining rain, you collapse to the welcoming ground while you wait for the heat to flood and warm you, stealing the last droplet of rain.