Catharsis

It was one of those days when the wind whips your face so hard it looks like you're wearing a cheap brand of blush, when it rains so hard that the windows groan, and when the only relief you have from large muddy puddles of water are smaller puddles to the left. People were poking each other with umbrellas, hurriedly brushing past the AM New York newspaper guy in order to get to the nearest awning, running from one to the next. Despite best efforts, everyone was drenched, cold, frenetic. In an epic battle against the ennui of our fabrications and constructions, of midtown east and overpriced delis, of business casual and leather shoes, of 9-5 and 9-infinity, of Republican filibusters and self-indulgent nuclear warfare, Mother Nature rose from within herself to shatter the very artifice in which we have captivated ourselves. It rained and rained as if the Earth were crying, as if purging its elation, fury, passion, sensuality in one desperate attempt at reinstilling chaos.