Bookmark #122

Let me tell you something about the city where nothing ever happens—not a lot may happen there, but there is an absolute uniqueness to how the rain arrives. You see, in most towns and cities, you can almost always figure out whether it’s going to rain or not, but that’s not a given for our little city in question. You may check your reports, you may look at the sky, and you may hang the dolls, but it rains when it has to rain. The sun might be shining for a week without so much as a whisk of a cloud in sight, but then the rain would come, and no one can rein it in once it begins; it comes and leaves on its own.

Now that you know how it rains in the city where nothing ever happens, let me tell you what happened a week ago. You see, I was walking down a familiar alley, and there wasn’t much to think about. So, I continued walking and not thinking about anything. It began slowly, you see, a few drops at first, and then some, and then within a second, I found myself drenched, covered with the hood of my jacket out of instinct.

You see, I have a reputation for hating the rains, and more often than not, we tend to take what they say about us to heart, but that evening as the drops landed in unison, something changed. Under the hood, all I could see was the drops hitting the road with a splat, and somehow, I loved it. So, I ran; I ran out of excitement, not fear.

I started running as if I was back to being eleven, and I ran without a care in the world, and all I could see were the drops. I wanted to stop to take a picture, but I was free, and I asked myself, “Who should I record this for?” And when I couldn’t answer the question, I continued running. Now, I shall forever remember drops the size of pebbles landing near my sneakers as I ran through the evening lights of the traffic like an eleven-year-old. It’s for my eyes only.

You see, that’s how it all plays out, more often than not, in the city where nothing ever happens. It has this absolute uniqueness to how it makes you feel. It could make you hate it, and yet, rein you back in with a simple, unexpected shower, bitter cold and yet so warm, almost like a hug—ten years too late, but arriving nonetheless.

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