The Subdued and the Subliminal

The rain has a funny way of fusing everything together like watercolor. The air is poisoned with the smell of rain. Try picking a patch of oxygen that is untainted. You won't find it. Then there is the melting. It can be likened to the effect of looking through smoke, but instead of the blur that comes with the latter is a melancholic sort of clarity. You see things as they are, a world of personal universes braided limply with the mutual experience of rain.

The rain has a sound, but not every tone is voiced. The iconic patter you hear playing on the glass of your window upon waking is but one dimension, then there is the lament. Rain deposited it in your subconscious while you were busied with its smell, with trying to store it someplace deep, not realizing that this will happen regardless of whether you try. It is this wailing that you hear when you see and smell rain and feel a tinge of sadness whose origin you cannot place.

The third dimension is silence. How can rain have both sound and silence? I can't tell you, but I believe it is there, lurking under the wail and weaving through the rhythmic strikes against the pavement. My conviction in the silence comes from the sense of peace that moves every creature to inertia. But maybe it is just the rhythm that lulls them.

And the pictures, let me explain. 1. I have been obsessing over the need for a bookcase in my life, or room. I don't have much space but I have enough will to make up for my wanting it there. 2. If my hopes do not pan out, will somebody take me to St. Petersburg, or Kiev? I think it would be like entering a fairy-tale, but better because it is real. 3. The tea/cake image needs no explanation. This is my place, after all.

image sources: 1. weheartit.com 2. igougo 3. unknown, from tumblr