rain
The doors squeal as they turn on their rusty hinges and the air hits your face like a wet rag. It's almost pleasant, the dampness of the day. To some it might be gloomy, but you thrive in it. Footsteps slapping on the reflective pavement bring to mind running barefoot in the same kind of wetness back home, and when the smell hits, it's just like you're back there years ago. The dampish, bitter smell of long absent water when it soaks into the dry fields fills you with a longing to just run as far and fast as you can toward the horizon, just to see if you can reach it and look over the edge. But you know, you have work to do. Things that you were meant to do, put here to be. You can't run away to that edge. You can't jump off or look over. You just walk back to your room, make your phone calls, write your essays. Someday, you will make it to that horizon, barefoot in the damp grass.