At least I’m not the only one crying tonight.
I’ve always hated the sun; for some reason, its warmth made me feel guilty. The clear sky, the mellow brightness — I despised it all. There is a certain comfort in a dark grey sky, rain painting the windows. Sunny weather felt like a punishment rather than a reward, for not feeling happy yet not feeling unhappy either, somewhere in the middle, I guess.
“It’s a good day, the sun’s out!”
The words echo in my mind, a familiar refrain I’ve heard countless times. It’s the kind of phrase that people say without thinking, as if the sun’s mere presence is a guarantee of a good day, of joy, of energy. But for me, it’s a hollow promise, a reminder that I’m somehow out of step with the world around me.
While others bask in the sunlight, soaking up its warmth and cheer, I feel an unease creeping in, a sense of dissonance between the external brightness and the internal fog that lingers no matter how clear the sky. The sun seems to mock me, its unrelenting cheerfulness a sharp contrast to the quiet storm brewing within. It’s as if the world is insisting on a narrative of happiness that I cannot live up to, a story that doesn’t fit the contours of my reality. Or maybe I’m just pessimistic.
On days when the sun blazes overhead, the world feels too exposed, too raw. The light seems to peel back the layers I’ve carefully constructed, exposing the vulnerability beneath. It’s as though the sun’s rays are a magnifying glass, highlighting every flaw, every crack in my façade. I find myself retreating from the brightness, seeking refuge in the shadows, where I can exist without the pressure to perform, to match the world’s expectations of what a “good day” should be.
But when the sky darkens, when the rain begins to fall, it’s as if the world finally aligns with my own mood. The grey clouds, heavy and full, mirror the weight I carry inside. The rain, with its soft, persistent rhythm, drowns out the noise of the world, allowing me to sink into the comfort of my own thoughts. There’s a soothing anonymity in the rain, a sense that the world is not watching, not expecting anything from me. It’s a reprieve from the relentless demand for positivity, for clarity, for light.
In the rain, I don’t have to pretend. I can let the melancholia wash over me like the raindrops on the pavement, a gentle, unspoken release of the emotions I keep hidden away. The rain becomes a companion, a silent witness to the quiet battles I fight within myself. It doesn’t ask me to smile, to embrace the day, to be anything other than what I am in that moment.
So when I hear, “It’s a good day, the sun’s out,” I can only smile faintly, knowing that for me, a good day isn’t defined by the presence of the sun, but by the freedom to feel without constraint. A good day is one where the rain falls softly, where the world is cloaked in shades of grey, and where I can exist in the space between joy and sorrow, without the pressure to choose one or the other.
This is where I find myself most often — living in the grey area, the space between black-and-white thinking. It’s where the world isn’t divided into stark contrasts of good or bad, happy or sad, but where I can embrace the complexities of my emotions without the need for clear definitions. The grey area is where the sun and rain coexist, where I don’t have to be fully one thing or another. It’s a place of ambiguity, of acceptance, where I can be both strong and vulnerable, both content and restless.
In the end, I realize that the sun and I are simply at odds. It shines too brightly for someone who finds solace in the shadows, who feels most at peace when the world is wrapped in the gentle embrace of a storm. While others chase the sun, I find myself longing for the rain, for the moments when the world is quiet and the only sound is the soft patter of raindrops against the window, each one a tiny affirmation that it’s okay to feel as I do.
You’re like the sun, you wake me up
But you drain me out if I get too much
