It’s raining at the end of the world

It’s a new year. I found it hard to mobilize myself to write. It’s not that I lost motivation or inspiration. It’s the rain, the gloominess, the lack of sleep, the time-consuming agitation of life. It’s the wild, mixed emotions. Thinking about what was and what could have been.

Oh yes, it’s definitely the rain too.

It’s been raining for days and it’s raining still. The soil is like a giant sponge. Everything is wet, including the air I breathe.

I feel like an island in this immense ocean. The water is incessantly flowing, falling, hitting, banging against the foundations of everything that’s still solid. I can see other distant islands, tiny points of light and warmth in the cold wet grayness. I see them in the distance, barely visible, like unknown lights pulsating in the night.

I have a long relationship with rain.

When I was little and living with my grandma, rain meant I couldn’t be in the garden, either playing or helping her with something. So I hung around on the terrace, waiting. I was wrapping my hands around the supporting pole and pushing my body round and round.

This is what I associate with rain from that period: waiting. I was waiting for my mom to visit, for the sun to come out, for me to grow up.

I was dreaming of what I could become – and that meant anything I wanted. Something great, in any case. Out of the ordinary mold, far from mediocrity. And I felt so far from these projections of greatness, so little compared to what I was supposed to become. But that wasn’t a problem. I had time on my side. I had all these things I could do, one moment after another, one day after another so that I get a bit closer.

I remember those endless childhood days, the rain falling, the agitation of waiting for something that was just a few hours away but seemed to be forever frozen in the future.

Now I cannot make sense of many days before they’re already gone. I just record their passage. It’s like sleep – you go in and out of it and meanwhile time has passed. Only that it’s not sleep, it’s life. It’s what should have been life but has been replaced by schedules, meetings, worries, urgencies, fatigue, anxiety. And some sunshine in between.

Part of me is still there, on the terrace, in the body and the emotions of a child. Trying to make sense of things, making circles around the pole. Waiting for the rain to stop, for my mom to arrive, for something great to happen, for life to really start.

  1. Your writing is just beautiful that I could picture your childhood in the rain..and the waiting. In my childhood, rain is equivalent to playing in the rain. 😂 Haunting images and yet beautiful at the same time. Wishing you well and warmer days ahead!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. It’s so nice and uplifting to read your words, thank you! 🙂 Sure, rain is associated with other things for me too. Childhood is a large enough space to contain all of them. But this is an image that has stayed with me, as if it were a riddle still waiting to be solved.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Sadly reflexive, beautifully said. Maybe some of your ennui is covid exhaustion. I’m thinking we are all weighed down with covid exhaustion, but that eventually we’ll get beyond it. Here’s to a brighter new year.

    Liked by 1 person

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