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Creative Writing

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Literature

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Travel

(If I Could) Paint The Rain.


I sat gazing at the zealous raindrops on the window of the train. There were millions of them in a horizontal race with time, some marking their territory, leaving trails until they reached the finishing line that was the window pane, others reticent, disappearing just as quickly as they had come. Some hesitated; others drew a consecutive line until the end, obscuring the glass with the resilience of capacity. They resembled fervent tadpoles, fading into the nothingness of the sea with every current. My eyes followed them until they became nothing more than a memento of what had been, bewildering the eyes of the beholder. The glass became speckles of reminiscence; I blinked, until the lens cleared. 

(Image Source: here)

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