Sometimes, even when the sun is shining I can see rain.
It’s funny how used to a view through one window you can get. It’s strange that every line stays the same, you just get used to always having that same picture outside.
Everything changes, various cycles, random influences. But really, it’s the same.
And you can still see the rain when it isn’t even there.
I’m trying to find a way to make that not sound depressing.
Perhaps I should note the creative and generative power of rain. Not the most commonly symbolic association, but it’s definitely a truth. This years summer has already sucked the green out of most of the grasses here, and many of us are sick of the thick muggy air.
And I for one can still see the rain.
I kind of want it.
I want the rain to come back. To bucket down and pour in sheets off the buildings. To torrent down the streets and cascade into gutters, so that roads become rivers and hills become waterfalls.
It’s incredible when it happens, and most of us just hide away from it.
A warm summer storm is the most exciting of atmospheres.
Though it’s much better if you’re within ten minutes run (and dance, and bounce) of somewhere dry with a change of clothes.
And as I think that, I look out the window. And out the window of this image.
Is that even rain?
Or just texture. Or darkness.
Drawing is imperfection, and impression, and beautiful.
A house front. In the dark, in the rain. The detail gets filled in.
I feel like I’ve been there.
I stare out of the window, head pressed against the pane.
And I’m there.
Through the rain (that rain, back again, always rain).
What is it about gazing out of windows.
It’s boredom, it’s being at home.
It’s familiar, but it’s looking out.
It’s distance, disconnection. But it’s knowing that there’s more out there.
I trawl my memory. I can think of every window I’ve ever lived in side. I can see the view outside. I can think of signs that I’ve stared at for days. I can think of houses i’ve gazed at. I can think of trees I’ve considered friends.
I think of flows of traffic, ever changing, but somehow always following the same patterns.
I remember the parking lot I grew up with.
From my window now, I can even see the sea.
Brighton rooftops laid out before me. Even one of the onions.
Views from windows. It’s alien and close. It’s familiar but distant.
And it’s always like looking through rain.
Distortion, memory, loneliness.
And the unknown.
I see those darkened windows, and the mysteries with in.
There are people out there.
Through the rain (that rain)
Some day, I hope to grow out of staring out of windows, and start looking for people on the other side.
But for now, I’ll keep on staring.
Through the rain.
And the not rain.
Image by Anna-Kaisa.
‘Illustration’ by Alex.