Pattering against the windows,

the rain puts me into a somber and reflective mood, as usual. For some reason it makes me think of Peter Pan, and Neverland, and I feel a little left out, because I have never been.

I wish I was a better writer. jbod tells a story about cough syrup, and you'd think it was Mary Poppins and magic; B writes in perfect prose, and can make me wistful, playful, or thoughtful in four lines or less. Me, I've learned to compose a compellingly persuasive essay on nearly any topic of importance - and somewhere along the way, I think I strangled my inner child.

And I'm thinking of those the wishes we that have. The ones we do not dare speak aloud, because really deep down inside of your heart (right next to that spot reserved for your mom and dad and God and brothers and sisters), we're afraid that if we say our wish out loud that it really might not come true. And I want those wishes to come true so bad sometimes.

So when the sky clears, and the stars come out, I'll go outside and let myself feel little under the big night sky. I'll stare up at that big black canvas punctured by a billion burning suns and think about "big picture" things until my mind is spinning. Finally, I'll think about my writing wish and the other ones I'm too scared or superstitious to tell you about, and I'll let go. I'll let all my inadequacies float lazily away on the summer breeze.

But tonight, with the rain pattering against the windows, I will simply comfort myself with hope, and happiness, and by counting my blessings.