When it rains… How I feel.

Away from politics and the filthiness of adult interests…

They tell us daydreaming is a waste of time. But I daydreamt half of my life and I turned out OK.

There is something special about the rain in Lebanon. Or maybe there isn’t, and my mind is just making that up. When you love, you see things in the object of your love. Illusion?

When it rains in France, there are no feelings inside me. In Germany, I notice it. Period. In London, it’s of whatever importance.

When it rains in Lebanon, I am touched. It means something. As if there were value in each rain drop that fall.

I am not one of those melancholic people who get emotional and weird whenever it rains. You know, the “Emo” type–nay, nay. But when in Lebanon, I am.

It is not because of the scarcity of the rain, either, even though I have the impression that it is scarcer than before. Climatic change? False impression? Je ne sais pas. Anyway, the rain god is not angry with us so far

It’s the reflection of the light. During the rain, I mean. The sun is never very far. Even when the weather is gray and the clouds so thick, it constantly watches over us. Even when it does not shine, its luminosity is always there.

It’s the reflection of the light in the rain drops. The sun and the rain. This combination.

There is the smell of the rain, too. The air exuding a wet odor of walls, cars, and urban trees. The odor of dust turned into silt. This ambiance. I smelled it once in Paris, and I was surprised myself to be struck by the magic of the instant, in the city of disenchantments–yet romantic. Even dirt can happen to smell good.

I’ve missed being in Lebanon while it rained. Autumns and winters abroad helped me to enjoy it better.

The feeling of loss is necessary to make you realize how much you love. Humans are an oblivious race. It might be a good thing.

I often reach my hand to touch the rain drops: they seem thicker than anywhere else. I pay attention to the sound of the rain. I said “sound” but I thought “melody” and of course I was too ashamed to write it down.

To hell with emotional prudishness: I taste the rain; it happens. Not so much in the city, but almost every time in the countryside. A mineral, ferrous taste. I look forward to it.

That’s all.

Happy Valentine by the way. I would have loved to talk about love, but this is not a love blog.


Ashrafieh rooftops

The rain, the sun… water and light…

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