It is raining. Night rain. The best rain. Not morning rain when you are sitting on the sofa eating your breakfast looking out at the grey pouring rain knowing you’ve got to go out in it and it’s going to be coming down all day.
Often I don’t mind being out in the night rain. I think usually it’s because I am going home, so getting wet doesn’t matter, it is something you can just experience instead of enduring. Also, there is less traffic. So little competes with the sound of the rain.
About 13 years ago, I remember walking home in pouring rain, it was around 2 am. The rain fell heavily and steadily the whole journey. I arrived home, around 3.30 am, drenched. There was a strange comfort in drying off, brushing on wet hair back off my face and putting on dry clothes. I fed the cats while my cup of tea brewed then sat at the kitchen table with the silence and the rain. Then, I went to bed, hair still damp, and fell asleep to Eno’s Music for Films.
No rain this morning. Bright sunshine through the curtains. I have a headache and don’t want to get up. But I keep falling asleep and having unpleasant dreams.
Sometimes the words come easily. Sometimes they are lost in the fog. Some words get so lost that my escitalopram brain decides I must no longer need them severs the path to my tongue. It is starting to do this with memories too. Is that a good or bad thing? Will these missing memories be restored when the escitalopramic fog has cleared?
I am lying in bed. I always seem to be lying in bed. The brown cat is lying with me. I can feel her warmth through the candlewick bedspread. I hear the tumble dryer, one of my comfort sounds. I remember at Oakbrook Road, before I had therapy, when I was anxious I would put the washing machine on and go and lie in the bath. The sound, the normal everyday sound, of the washer would comfort me. When things felt out of control as they often did back then those normal sounds would ground me. Other people need physical contact, I just need the sound of a washing machine.
It is early evening now. Outside it is still raining. The sound of car tyres on wet tarmac. The damp cool air coming in through the window. It smells fresh. Strangely, it smells like Sundays.
Sunday evening, alone in your room, outside it is raining, the light is strange, you sit at your window, bored, the KLF are playing on your tape player. A summer Sunday in the rain. You watch the cars, they are all distinct from each other, you can name each one, the make and model; if you were to see a photograph of these cars now they would all look very dated.
The light in your room is fading. You turn the light on and you watch your reflection in the window as you walk over to the bed, despite your young age, you are vain. You lie on the bed on top of the duvet you left on a bus in a dream the other night and you wonder what to do.
The setting sun is shining brightly through the curtains now, somewhere there will be a rainbow.