I like to be outside on rainy days. High boots, an umbrella which can be hung with a bag/ finger, raincoat, comfort--Comfort.
I love standing on a mildly crowded bus going back home while rain steams outside. Everyone is uncomfortable with muddy shoes. Stepping on the bus feels like chewing wet sand as the wet muddy shoes press against the mud-prints of earlier passengers.
And everyone stands a little apart from everyone, listening to their own music or chatting with their companions. The damp air sings 𝘔𝘦𝘨𝘩 𝘔𝘢𝘭𝘩𝘢𝘳, and I cannot possibly imagine what the same route looks like on a sunny day.
Why does the rain make it so unreal? All of it. Maybe because the rain washes the wounds which the sun had cauterised before. Be it the utterly terrific monsoons washing away the warmth with their humidity or the winter mist that waters the cracked lips.
It makes you crave comfort; of food, of place, of people, of love--everything warm. The green looks too green and the grey looks too magnificent. Whoever considered grey could be such a sight?! Washed roads, pavements and skies. Beautiful.
Makes me nostalgic for the places I have never been to and the dreams I can vividly remember. Have you been to that one ruined castle on that hilltop? Yeah, me neither. Have you been to that one ruined manor whose corridors are plagued by shadows made of vapours and memories made of petrichor? Perhaps yes.
Every corner smells like a hidden mossy garden concealing some eldritch secrets, ready to be exposed just by you.
If only I could be out and away...