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 lovely to stay in the shelter and observe how powerful nature is, curved like the gentlest creatures and masculine like 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 natural, 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 he leaves in every song awakens strength and reason in each one who digs into his eyes without qualms, without fear. The sun is intrusive and sometimes 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 view, because perhaps, beyond that burning mass, little remains if no one is watching. Rain, on the other hand, speaks. All it takes is an umbrella to descend all around, leaving streaks of its presence, like the timid 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 pride. It exists, it manifests itself; with dedication and 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 leaves invisible traces.
I love the rain. And the storm. And the sky charged with life.
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Photo by Aline de Nadai