Sometimes, you end up running the metaphor. The rain starts to fall, externalizing, echoing the heart’s aches. It drums against the body, perhaps a soft, warm brush against skin or staccato. Hard, abrupt, cold.
The metaphor turns literal. The world turns inside out. Reality peeks through the cracks. The loneliness and hurt. Confusion and loss. The ragged breath, stitch in side. A knife filleting the heart. The center, throbbing, throbbing.
Peeled to the final layer. Pulp and seeds. Unstrained. No, strained. To the dregs. To the last worn-out knot of breath. This is what’s real. This is what it comes down to.
This is what it comes down to: feet against pavement. Steady, steady. You’re running in the rain. Care is warranted. Puddles. Slipping on concrete. The broken bone jutting through skin. Now is not the time to lose your head or heart.
No. Now is the time to run the literal metaphor, past it, through it. Go beyond the world of metaphor and simile into the place of things that are. Peel back the layers, hold them to the light. Let the heart sputter, screech, howl. A rough tune coming into tune. Slowly, steadily. A right rhythm. Recognizable. A strong beat. One that captures the mind’s attention and heart’s affection and aims the body toward home.
Running in the rain. Running the metaphor. This is what it comes down to.
*Italicized phrases are from Paul Celan, Ada Limon, and Neil Gaiman.