Scribblings

Rain as a Romantic Event

It is raining.

It’s nice. Everybody likes rain. It sounds like music, it smells like beginnings. Ask anyone their favourite smells and they’ll tell you, “Rain,” along with “Cut grass, freshly ground coffee beans, old books…”

The ever growing argumentative part of me wants to dispute the romanticism associated with rain. It’s water falling from the sky, we all learnt about the water cycle in year 3, it wasn’t that interesting.

But there’s something undeniably satisfying about rain.

The hours leading towards climax; the feeling of our atmosphere pressing in on us, making the air thick, heavy and hot. It’s static – it tugs lethargy into your muscles while injecting energy into the mind.
The ominous energy which defies regularity; the clouds gather and loom, flourishing across the sky like bruises.
People smile. “We need rain,” they say with gentle eagerness.
The heat builds. Like rising tension, like the bounds of the atmosphere pressing closer and closer,
Until the sky cracks apart and water douses the heat and lifts the tension and dampens the erratic energy into a contented melancholy.

When the clouds are entirely wrung dry, and the sweet scent of freshness floats in gossamer threads through the air, the springtime light of soft greens and golden yellows hang in an even and calm suspension. Carrying rays of light and the rejuvenating energy of optimism.

It is raining.

I claim no uniqueness, as I am ‘anyone’, and I love the rain.

 

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