It’s 6 p.m. and the rains are driving against my window. The yard outside my window is melting into a complete blur. The shapes— the shed across the yard, the miserable, dead flowers that have wilted alongside the house, the hammock strung between the two rotting trees—all have blended into a mess of drab pastels. If I were not already familiar with what they are, I would have no way of knowing what they were.

The rains have been falling for the better part of my life—for so long, in fact, that I can barely remember a time when I lived free of them. Sometimes they’ve fallen as a gentle drizzle, a reminder that things could be better, or indeed, much, much worse. Over time, I’ve become accustomed to the rains and have learned to live my life within their bounds. A constant nightmare.

I’ll always remember the first time that I experienced the rains. I was a child—staring through the window, transfixed by the water as it slowly descended from the sky. I followed each drop as it descended from the heavens and hit the ground, slowly eroding away everything in its path. I remember the earth—it was so bare at that time. The water had nowhere to go but straight ahead, rushing towards some unknown destination, wreaking havoc as it flowed. But the enchantment soon wore off and as time passed, I became more and more angry that rains were preventing me from venturing outside and enjoying life like all the others were able to. I used to watch them from my window as they laughed and played, their faces glowing under the bright blue sky. My anger was destructive—raw hatred, envy, jealousy. My thoughts even turned to murder.

But suddenly, it happened for me: along came that magical moment, the instant when the rains stopped. I cautiously ventured outside, unwilling to believe that the break in the downpour was but a brief respite, even though dark clouds loomed ominously on the horizon. But the break in the fury was hopelessly tainted for the rains had left a barren aftermath devoid of any sign of life. While the other children played in green meadows, I was abandoned amid a lunar landscape punctuated by thick, deep pools of muddy mass. Looking across the yard, I realized that even though the rains had stopped, there was nothing left worth holding on to. Even the earth, once flat, had been carved into an unrecognizable expanse. Tiny riverbeds shot off in every direction, each one etched out by the merciless force of the raging waters.

As I grew older, the rains became an omniscient presence in my life. They raged more and more frequently, despite becoming more erratic in their nature. Long periods of drenching showers ended as abruptly as they had started, ushering in a magnificent sunshine that made me forget all about the troubles of the past. I remember those days fondly and still count them among the very few enjoyable moments of my wet and soggy life. I played as hard I could during those increasingly brief respites despite the bleak surroundings. I learned to enjoy the ever widening riverbeds and the dark pools that stained the yard. I captured every possible moment of freedom and happiness that the sunshine gave me because I knew that the rains would soon return, whether it be in a matter or days, weeks or, infrequently, months. Those dark clouds always hung in the distance, the rumble of thunder reminding me that they would soon return.

During my formative years, the dark clouds became an increasingly constant fixture as the sun shriveled into a hazy speck that hid somewhere beyond the horizon. I could see it—I knew the light was there, ready to break out, but no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t feel its warmth upon my pale skin. That damned sun always seemed to be shining for others, their faces tanned and radiant as they basked in the bright rays. As for those others, no matter how many times that they told me to simply look up towards the sky and allow the clouds to part— that the sun was there, I just had to welcome it— I simply couldn’t do it. I knew that the sun was there somewhere, that my memories of its presence weren’t just idyllic dreams, but I couldn’t make it out amongst those clouds that hung so low, at times so low that I felt like they were going to crush me under their weight. I often tried to reach for them, to rip them out of the sky and rid myself of their damning shadow once and for all. But the result was always the same: the further I reached and the harder I pulled, the more torrential the rains became.

So I stopped trying. It took me years to come to the inescapable conclusion, but I finally realized that the harder I tried and struggled against them, the harder the rains would fall. Instead, I attempted to compromise with them, promising them things that I couldn’t possibly deliver. My bargaining tactics were ones of never-ending concessions—if one of my miserable offerings were refused, I would, in turn, demand even less, hoping that the rains would eventually take pity.  “If you let the sun come out this week,” I begged, “you can pummel the earth for the rest of the month.” When that offer was abruptly declined, I pleaded for just one day of sunshine during the entire year. I knew that I couldn’t possibly concede any more than that, so I waited for the rains to accept the deal. I stared at the sky, praying that the sun would finally peek through the clouds and fill my eyes with light. I stared until my eyes hurt, scanning the vast expanse for any sign that the rains would finally relent. Miraculously, there were times when the sun would start to break through—the clouds would part and a few lonely beams would reach the earth, filling me with hope for the future. But it was not to be. As soon as those rays shone down upon my pale, sickly face, more clouds would sweep in and the rains would cascade even harder than before, their rhythmic pelting seemingly laughing at me as I shrunk back into despair. I would sit and cry as the rivers once again flowed swiftly, almost wanting to jump in and be carried away.

As time passed and even the tiniest trace of the sun was forever washed out of the sky, I realized that I would have to stop simply reacting to the rains when they showed and take a proactive stance instead. I lay down on my bed and thoroughly thought it through, judging every single possibility with careful deliberation. Eventually, I came to realize that only one choice remained for me: to accept the rains as they were, to learn to live under the blackened skies, to breathe the thick, dank air. After all, what was the point of fighting a war that I couldn’t possibly win against an enemy that knew no mercy?

At first it was difficult—naturally, I wanted to rebel against the rains, but I had to constantly remind myself that this was my new plan of action, the only way that I could possibly live my life. I didn’t dare say it aloud, but I secretly hoped and prayed that by accepting the rains and even thriving under their menacing pall, it would teach them a lesson. It would show them that nothing they did to me could possibly bring me down—that I could survive no matter what they threw at me. When they saw me in that light, I prayed, they would finally realize that to continue to fall would be pointless, and they would finally move out to sea.

Despite my careful planning, my venture became yet another failed attempt at escape. I tried to live, but the drops kept falling. I tried to grow, but the rains drove even harder. I tried to thrive, but the downpour became so dense that I couldn‘t see mere inches in front of my face. I extended my hands to the clouds, hoping for a friendly acknowledgment that I had won the game, but instead of accepting my gentlemanly offer, the rains grabbed my hands and twisted my arms behind my back, imprisoning me. I struggled to free myself, even if only to slightly loosen their grip, but the frigid rains shivered my bones, and my fingers becoming practically useless. I could barely move, held in place by something that didn’t even exist. People often asked me why I seemed paralyzed and unable to move forward and I explained to them that it was the rains, that they were the reason why I was grounded. They laughed, saying that I was crazy—they didn’t believe that the rains could have that power, that complete and uncompromising hold over one’s life. But they were all wrong, no matter how convincing their argument—the rains were indeed stronger than any other force on earth, and I had no means of escape.

It’s 6:30pm now. The tiny riverbeds that I observed as a child have been transformed into massive gullies, but even they are too choked to carry away all the liquid and debris. With nowhere left to go, the water level keeps rising. Eventually, the water will reach my doorway and erode away the foundation of my house. Then the river will carry me and my sanctuary away in the swift currents. Despite all of the fighting, all of the compromise, the pleading, the crushed hopes and dreams, I must accept defeat. The rains have finally, inevitably, won.