It’s rainy season in Costa Rica. The rain comes with the consistency and punctuality of a porn star. And although I usually have an inclination for sexual depictions, whether by human or earthly precipitation, I am soaked sick.
Like sex, rain is normally a relief; a de-stressor; a method of rinsing clean the slime that has accumulated in your garden. All concerns and analyses are ejected and washed away. Sex and rain are synonymous with each other. A sweet and thick air hangs heavy after both, allowing one to simply take pleasure in the moment, in the breath.
However, too much sex is nothing like too much rain. No matter how much sex has been had, the subsequent emotions are always the same (barring any contextual mishaps). When it rains too much, though, the relaxing mood is substituted with dread – a seemingly never-ending sensation of hopelessness. It paralyzes. It depresses. It “unmotivates.” Leaving you cold and damp, too much rain is a winter night’s unrealized wet dream – rather, nightmare. Now I can neither fall back asleep, nor muster the energy to move on.
Rain, rain, Go away
Come again when I should stay
