It’s 10:58am in the morning, and I’m seated by the balcony with my laptop and music humming on my speakers. It’s raining outside — the showers alternating between rhythms. There’s just something about grey mornings that I find really alluring. Even as a child, I’d enjoy getting ready for school with it raining outside. Mornings are associated with peace, while rain brings a sense of theater to everything. Umbrellas, boots, trench coats and whistling winds — everyone is in costume. When the two come together, I instinctively find myself drawn to the balcony.

Morning rains feel apocalyptic, because of how uncommon they are. They break routine — I have this memory of rainy mornings that I always associate with classroom lights. Of walking into school at 8am to find the lights on. It’s a simple thing, but the early morning fluorescence was such an anomaly, that it felt like an event in itself. That sense of occasion hasn’t gone.

I’ve been reading a long New Yorker profile on Anthony Bourdain for the past 20 minutes, marked by regular intervals of staring out into the rain. I don’t know what it is — the grey on the outside shines this light on everything on the inside. It makes the simple things seem so profound — how the sound of rain provides the perfect score — for instance, I’m suddenly so aware of how pleasurable it is to read a New Yorker piece that seems never ending — how scrolling on the touch pad feels akin to unscrolling a piece of parchment. I think rainy mornings play with time — they make you so aware of it, of how limitless yet momentary time is.

The rain, the patter, the petrichor, the New Yorker profile and the music — I feel a sense of happiness and peace that is overwhelming. I take a moment to become aware of my breath — to remind myself that in this moment I am alive and witness to this. That I too, have a role in this theatre. But, there’s also a gutting sadness too — the realization that this moment can’t last forever. That the clouds will part, that it will stop raining and the article will eventually end. I wish it could be 10:58am forever.

The world runs on stories. So do I.

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