the rain and my armageddon.

I got my patriarchal blessing today! I'd have to say it was the coolest thing I've ever experienced in my entire life. I don't know if "cool" is an appropriate word for it haha but it's true.

181 days until I graduate high school.

I'm supposed to be writing a personal narrative for my English class, but the problem is that I don't remember things in story format. I just remember little pictures in my head of the situation, and that's it. I mean, I could just make it up (it's not like my teacher would know the difference) but I just can't think of a story in the first place. I think I'm in trouble. I wish we could write an imaginary story or something, I could do that... maybe. Or an allegory. That would be even better.

In light of needing inspiration for a story, I was looking through some old assignments to see if I'd already written a narrative (I wasn't going to turn it in, just use it for inspiration!) And I found this allegory-type thing that I wrote about a year ago. It's kind of weird, and needs more work, but that's how I wrote it when I wrote it so here it is. It's kind of cool, I think, but also really confusing, so if you don't understand it, don't feel bad. I titled it "The Rain and My Armageddon."

Remember the point in your life when it was raining the hardest. You were inside of your grandpa's old beach house. He was born there, his father was born there, his father's father was born there. You were born there, too.

You had made your way through the entry and the foyer, which weren't much, really. The entire house was empty. You had stopped in the living groom, facing a wall of windows. At one point this house had looked out over the beach and waves and miles of ocean. It had once been the envy of the small town it lived in. It had encompassed smiles, sunshine and love.

Now, however, you're standing in the center of the house. If you're going to organize the house's thoughts and feelings and memories, this is the place to do so. Remembering and observing each memory like a seashell on the beach, you count thirty years' wear and neglect. The broken windows, peeling paint and rusted door knobs have all forgotten what they once were. How many times had "Remember who you are and what you stand for," been shouted out the door at escaping teenagers over the years, and now even the house itself had stopped listening. And it's raining outside.

Through this wall of broken windows you watch as the tide comes crashing in. The rain attacks everything in sight, and nothing is safe from its assault. Even inside the house, you feel the sharp, cold spray through the cracks in the windows. Dark clouds groan under their own weight, yet they move quickly across the darkened sky. Somehow you cannot avert your eyes. You tell yourself to move away from the window, but you're stuck; you've become rooted to the spot like Grandpa's old oak tree outside. You're stuck watching the rain and the clouds and the waves. You know what surrounds you, but trees can't move around to see it, can they? Fortunately, few things are more interesting than watching rain fall and fall.

Remember the point in your life when it was raining the hardest. Did you become rooted to the spot, forever watching the angry clouds and relentless downpour? Did you wait for someone to come cut you down, as you closed your eyes to the scene? Or did you turn, and take one momentous, crashing step forwards? Surely you found that the ground was wet under your feet from the rain seeping in through every crevice and imperfection, but by taking that step, you can turn your back on that wall of broken windows. As long as you are no longer stuck facing that scene of disarray, it might as well not be there at all.