In the rush of the rain

I am a snail.

When you think of me, you think of slow things. When you see me I am usually crushed and run over by ants, or on a tray with butter and garlic garnished with coriander.

Other than that you do not see much of me. I like to be hidden, away from the rest of you, because when I appear and you see me it's usually not a good end for me. Like you, I dislike dying.

I slither. I slide. I move slow. I like it when it's slow; it's a nice pace to see the world, and there is so much to see. You don't know I'm there, watching, because you're too much in a hurry to notice me. It's amazing how much you don't see when you're rushing off wanting to see everything.

I like it when it rains. I get to feel fast because when it rains the world becomes slower than I am. In my snail eyes, I see the world stop.

And when it gets really heavy, it becomes like in those old movies, where streaks of white blaze down the monochromatic scene, cutting the single frame into millions of small segments, each a different size than the others. The sound breaks, screeching and scratched by the falling raindrops hitting the pavement.

Now you're thinking that I can't hear. But I can, and I do. You should try seeing the world from un-you. Then you probably can see me.

In the black and white of the rain, I see people standing, looking up expecting to see something there that would make it all stop. There are those who walk in the rain, like I do. It gets wet you see, and for someone who breathes through their skin I need to get to higher ground or I die again.

Those that walk in the rain, they look out for me. It's nice to be noticed.

I am a snail, and you see me when it rains. Not because I come out, but because you wanted to.