Ruminations in Belize

In a conversation in the asylum outside of an impossibly secluded town a character named Peter told Bibi, the protagonist of the story 'The Hope Valley Hubcap King': "I'm a cynic, and a true cynic feels superior to everything. I have developed the unique ability, through criticizing my own attributes again and again, of feeling superior even to myself."
Hierarchical pricks unite! The moments in which we are drawn so deeply inward, to our own thoughts and ideas, even to the degree where it manifests physical pain, can promote a sense of 'realness'. In this place time is irrelevant and the moody ruminations eclipse the mact of the fatter that all things are temporary. In fact, if one tries to grasp at this, it often just hurtles them to an even deeper degree of moroseness. Yet it is the moments when we are furthest from this that we are closest to the rest of us, to the world around us as an extension of our selves and we of it. A confluence which my mind at least is not yet pliable enough to grasp. But there are those instants of abandon.
Two days past I was sanding a board, watching the sander in my hand, caressing the texture and watching the patterns in the mahogany. The saw and the sander were loud but my MP3 device further drowned any outside sound. The metal roof over head blocked me from the weather and I was only aware of cloud cover or sun in the way it lighted the material at hand. All my senses were preoccupied would be the more direct way of saying it. In an instant all things around me faded as a smell reached me. I stopped and looked up to identify the source. It was the smell of steeping rain, of flowers being caught with their heads thrown back and their mouths open by a storm. From the blue sky came a deluge of rain. It was beautiful and I was drunk in it. I put down my work for just a moment and wandered out into it. I cannot claim the smile that came across my face as being my own, only a reflection of the wonderment struck by that moment. It passed. I returned to my work station.
I kept the smile, if only to try to retain that moment and wondered where the rainbow which accompanies such phenomena was.
My Granddaddy shut off his saw and looked around and in his gruff, old man, Southern accent demanded, "Well what in the world!? It doesn't even know the right way to rain in this country!"