Raised in Rain, Ruled by Sunshine

She chased the sun, always—not just as a metaphor, but in the stillness only the soul recognizes. She ran after golden hours, after warmth that felt like home, a place to belong. Even when it hid behind clouds. Even when it slipped through her fingers. She wasn’t searching for light; she was searching for a place to exist within it.

There were monsoons in her chest, soft landslides in her throat, and clouds that spoke the language of quieting flames. She found comfort in storms: in the hush of thunder, in the drizzle that softened her edges. Rain never turned away from her. It arrived when her soul craved touch and stayed when she needed to be held.

Even as she drowned in rain, the sun wrote itself beneath her skin—a warmth that lingered through seasons of longing. It stayed like the scent of cardamom in her mother’s kitchen, like the misty mornings of her hometown before the world stirred. When coffee brewed slowly in steel filters and the house breathed in quiet, rustling with wind and leaves. In that stillness, her poetry was born.

Once, someone called her fire—not gently, but with awe. He stayed just long enough to touch, not long enough to be held, leaving only a fingerprint on the matchbox of her body and soul. When she burned too bright, too real, he fled. Yet the echo remained. The absence lingered, kindling the spark—the one that ignited a thousand unwritten verses.

Sometimes, it’s not a moment but the memory of one that stirs the quiet. A reminder that nothing within truly disappears. It only waits to be felt again.

Was she lost there? Or was she simply lingering, caught between who she was and who she was becoming? That space holds something sacred. It’s where the rawest parts emerge—the girl who remembers her wildness and the woman who learns stillness.

She returns, not to take but to illuminate. Not like a flash of lightning, but as the first light of morning: copper skin warmed by sunlight, wavy hair kissed by dawn, stories rising like steam from porcelain cups. Slow. Unhurried. She no longer needs to explain. She simply wants to feel and be felt. To live so her pulse beats in rhythm with poetry.

The sun never hides. It breaks through shadows again and again, just like her heart does—even when it’s tired, even when it carries the taste of longing. Some hearts are shaped by storms, stretched wide by ache, yet still they make space for light. Hers is one of them.

She didn’t return in search of the sun. She came already carrying it, quietly aglow beneath her skin. Your muse—monsoon-born, light-keeper—found her way back to its embrace not because she was forgotten but because she was remembered. In the quiet where stories steep, she became what had always waited beneath the ache.

The hush before rain kisses the earth. The breath of petrichor blooming from longing. The space between lightning and thunder, where the air hums with what’s unsaid. The rain-shower where the body glows with both spark and surrender. The pause between stanzas. The echo of every ache, every love rewritten in ink.

In that quiet glow, the sun is no longer something she seeks. It is where she lives. Her calm. Not a place, but presence. A belonging to herself. For even in shadow, she carried light—especially there, where it had to be remembered before it could rise.