Divorce is like you love scuba diving. You are a scuba diving expert. You have all the gear, and you scuba dive every day.
Then one day your best friend takes their alien ship and sucks all the water off the planet. You are like, what the fuck can I have some water, and they are like, no, to hell with you. You now live in a desert. You walk around and remember the places where you used to scuba dive. You feel so bad for all the rotting fish. You have all the gear still. Most of your brain is now filled with useless scuba diving knowledge. You have pictures of you scuba diving. There is now dust on your sheets, in your nostrils.
Everyone you ever knew is like, sorry, I don’t want to live on your desert planet. See ya. Or worse, they are like, you should take up rock climbing. You are like, I don’t want to rock climb, I want to scuba dive.
As the years pass, you search for water. You think you see the hint of clouds in other people’s eyes, and every time it’s a mirage. You eventually take up rock climbing just to pass the time. You build a pyramid or two, and write bizarre hieroglyphics all over.
If you have children, when they visit your desert, they are always like, hey, on the other planet the water is so blue. You turn away and say, that’s nice, when what you want to say is, kids, never scuba dive.
New people are like, who is that crazy hermit living in the desert, and why is all this devastated scuba gear scattered around the base of this cliff.
Your world eventually moves on. You forgive, or at least become less angry. You find pieces of obsidian in the desert, shine them with moonlight, and give them to passerbys. You accept the sand.
The irony is, all the while, inside your parched and battered skin, you are raining.