I admit it: I love the rain, the storm, the sky full of life, ready to erupt, swirling like the rip of lightning. It is wonderful to stand in the shelter and observe how mighty nature is, as sinuous as the gentlest of creatures and as masculine as Hercules or Apollo.
The sound of the drops, already sung by D’Annunzio, beats on the frozen earth, just as a mother caresses her newborn until it sleeps. I love the rain. The real, ambivalent, dual rain: the one that nourishes and sweeps away, the one that meticulously clears dusty leaves and peels off the withered, dried ones without any unnecessary pity.
I love the rain. That moist scent it leaves in every song and awakens strength and reason in everyone who digs into its eyes, without qualms, without fear. The sun is intrusive and, at times, even mischievous: it does not allow itself to be stared at in the face, it escapes, it only wishes to dazzle, that is, to take away the sight, because perhaps, beyond that burning mass, little remains, if no one observes it. Rain, on the other hand, speaks. All it takes is an umbrella for it to descend all around, leaving streaks of its presence, like the demure visitor who writes a note and then hides, waiting patiently.
But rain is also a woman. Real woman. Visceral in reactions, sometimes exaggerated. It shouts, it comes down with passion, it cloaks every speck of dust with its pride, it exists, it manifests itself; with dedication, simplicity, it shows that it is strong, without any weapon being drawn. In this force, I mirror myself, as if millions of tiny me’s appeared reflected and reverberated madly toward the depths of my existence. Not a sterile blanket of sunshine, but a warm and demure embrace that, of itself, leaves invisible traces.
I love the rain. And the storm. And the sky charged with life.
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