It’s raining outside, as it has been for most of today. It’s a quiet Sunday, the type that’s ideal for curling up in bed with a good book, as steam rises off a nearby cup of tea. Soft, almost undistinguishable music blends softly into the background, and the world seems to be at peace. I’ve always loved days like these.

Today, though, today is slightly different. Different because I’ve finally come to recognise something of which I’ve been growing increasingly aware over the past few weeks- the rain here is different. I mean, I’ve always known this, even in my earliest childhood recollections of Europe. The rain in Spain falls over the plain. I’ve always known that rain as heavy as we along the equator know it is an extremely rare phenomenon here; I’ve always been amused by people discussing the “downpour” outside, when to me it seemed like nought but a drizzle; I’ve always been aware, I suppose, of the difference. What escaped me was its implications.

These implications would probably be considered by most to be insignificant, yet I feel as though I’ve lost something that cannot easily be replaced, bar a quick flight home. I’ve always felt most at peace with myself on days like these; always felt like my best literary works and most inspired moments transpired as direct results of the hypnotic melody of the rain. The rain, to me, is beautiful. It grows gardens and washes the streets, it cools the air as it opens the skies, and it cleanses my spirit. The heavier the better; the more ferociously it lashed down, the more conviction I wrote with; or, on lazier days, the deeper I furrowed beneath my covers. At some point I’ll put down my pen, or my book, and just close my eyes as I attempt to make out each and every drop striking the window panes. I try to hear each individual clap as I take in the whole of the thunderous applause. Eventually inspiration strikes, and I continue to write. It doesn’t always make sense, at least not to others, but to me.. to me it’s magic.

The rain here is soft. It brushes the windows delicately, like the white-gloved hand of a woman, stroking the face of her lover. The gentleness is beautiful to observe, and indeed wondrously hypnotic in its own way, but there is no ferocity, no wind-whipped frenzy and no soul-grabbing wild passion. It is beautiful, but it is far more passive, and my emotional strings remain unplucked.

I miss the pitter-patter on the panes.

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