It's raining again. Now it's been a week and not a day went by without getting the asphalt wet, sometimes even with little floods on the cobbled-streets. Mostly it is just boring raining but tonight it's spiced up with some thunder and lightning. I'm very much enjoying this mixture of sounds: the cars, the big booms, some human voices, the horn of the tram, the violin play coming somewhere from our house, the thing that's hung on the balcony and tinkles as the wind blows it. That thing, which I don't know the name of, but as a fucked up chorus accompanies the night orchestra of this bizarre mass.
I don't mind the rain right now. Even though recently I've been so depressed of days passing by on me and I could easily say rain is a subsequent obsticle on the way of me starting living my life, a vis major I cannot forsee and defeat or avoid. I should hate it. Fuck it. Maybe I would have minded the rain yesterday, maybe I'll mind it tomorrow. I hated it and I'll hate it because of destroying my Cons as I'm not willing to wear any other shoes during summertime, the end of my jeans' legs which are totally muddy, the people with umbrella poking my eyes out even if there are just a couple of harmless drops falling.
But not tonight. Tonight is fresh. It doesn't feel the continuation or the beginning of a weather period. Today smells like summer rain, no history no future. It's cool, it's sweet that has washed away the stench of the city.
I'm on the balcony to smoke a cigarette. The goose bumps on my arms are the marks of the chilly air but it's chilly in a very nice way. I'm not yet cold. I'm holding the tip of my cigarette into the fire, inhaling a big one. And then just sitting on the balcony with my left hand resting on my lap. I'm totally calm. Sucking the fume out of that fag then blowing it into the night watching it disappearing at the bottom of the balcony above us. I'm wondering if the cat from the flat accross the inner garden is going for a night hunt again. Or someone in the hotel next to it forgets to draw the curtains. I can see some silhouettes of people at the back of TomTom smoking a cigarette, drinking some pints, talking about stuff. I noticed a tiny spider and its huge net linking the clothesline with the satellite and somehow Matrix popped into my mind. I'm sure that tiny spider won't be there tomorrow. Maybe the wind will sweep it away or it has already run away from the thunder into our apartment taking full adventage of the open door. Maybe it'll simply disappear just as the last pale cloud of the smoke from my lung becomes frayed.
I don't mind the rain right now. Even though recently I've been so depressed of days passing by on me and I could easily say rain is a subsequent obsticle on the way of me starting living my life, a vis major I cannot forsee and defeat or avoid. I should hate it. Fuck it. Maybe I would have minded the rain yesterday, maybe I'll mind it tomorrow. I hated it and I'll hate it because of destroying my Cons as I'm not willing to wear any other shoes during summertime, the end of my jeans' legs which are totally muddy, the people with umbrella poking my eyes out even if there are just a couple of harmless drops falling.
But not tonight. Tonight is fresh. It doesn't feel the continuation or the beginning of a weather period. Today smells like summer rain, no history no future. It's cool, it's sweet that has washed away the stench of the city.
I'm on the balcony to smoke a cigarette. The goose bumps on my arms are the marks of the chilly air but it's chilly in a very nice way. I'm not yet cold. I'm holding the tip of my cigarette into the fire, inhaling a big one. And then just sitting on the balcony with my left hand resting on my lap. I'm totally calm. Sucking the fume out of that fag then blowing it into the night watching it disappearing at the bottom of the balcony above us. I'm wondering if the cat from the flat accross the inner garden is going for a night hunt again. Or someone in the hotel next to it forgets to draw the curtains. I can see some silhouettes of people at the back of TomTom smoking a cigarette, drinking some pints, talking about stuff. I noticed a tiny spider and its huge net linking the clothesline with the satellite and somehow Matrix popped into my mind. I'm sure that tiny spider won't be there tomorrow. Maybe the wind will sweep it away or it has already run away from the thunder into our apartment taking full adventage of the open door. Maybe it'll simply disappear just as the last pale cloud of the smoke from my lung becomes frayed.
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