It’s raining. Everybody’s running in. I’m going out. A few curious glances from passers-by are nothing I’m not used to. Instead of an umbrella, I open my arms, inviting the heavy cloak of rain to embrace me.
As I walk, the magical percussion seeps into my ears. Raindrops are drumming loudly over the rooftops, hitting against the windows, running through trees and violently bending branches, its unique, gravelly sound echoing down the drains. If there’s one thing I enjoy more than the sound of the rain, it’s the smell of it, the smell of earth, of nature, of smoke evaporating from the warm streets.
It washes away the dust and the dirt, and the following day, when the sun rises, the whole city looks fresh and new. It’s this cleansing aspect of the rain that I like the most, the idea that it can purify whatever it touches.
Maybe even me.