Brisbane, 08/11/2004
Rain.
Lots of it.
A fresh breeze that doesn’t freeze you.
It’s not even cold.
But the city is not ready for it.
Everything is dripping,
even where it shouldn’t be.
The city is dead,
though the rain brings life to this dry area of the country.
The rain is here both needed and wasted.
Not wasted as in “not used for good”, but wasted as in “there’s no one enjoying it”.
Only cars in the street when the rain falls.
Few people walking around, either with umbrellas or running.
Running away from the rain.
As in any other city, but not as it should be.
No one has time to give theirselves to the litlle pleasures of life
like walking, happily and calmly under the rain while smiling at the sweet sensation of the raindrops touching your skin or clothes.
In a colder city… it wouldn’t be pleasant.
(Too many layers of clothing,
and the cold,
would stop you from noticing how pleasant a raindrop is, may it be a big one, or a small one)
Sweet little raindrops in your face.
Huge, heavy raindrops in your emmerald blue shirt – it’s not thick, coz it’s warm.
From the balcony of the central backpackers you see things from a different perspective.
You feel dry,
but everything around you is wet,
even the chair you’re sitting at.
You’re not anymore the main character of your life, now you’re just part a spectator.
Surely not the only one, but still, no one is going to get the same impression.
From this place, you can see a light,
and, around the light spot, raindrops – again.
Curtain shaped figure surrounding the light.
First from left to right, then falling straight to the floor, then to the left, dancing to the wind’s rythm.
You don’t feel dry anymore, and it’s getting cold.
But you’re still there,
waiting,
watching,
writing,
looking around the balcony first, then to the street.
People come out and leave again,
and leave you again with your thoughts,
your feelings,
your sensations.
And part of theirs.
Something stays;
this time: a jumper.
You put it on to get rid of the cold that has been silently invading you and your bones,
the cold that you notice only when you are already way too cold.
The jumper is not yours: later, you’ll give it back to the owner
and walk your way home in a different mood from the one you came with.
You won’t be enjoying the rain anymore.
You’ll be cold and wet, and willing to have a shower.
A shower after a rainy day.
One of the biggest pleasures.
But you’re still there,
in the balcony,
with an unknown jumper with its own life.
A life that comes up to your nostrils and provokes feelings on you.
You like the smell.
It’s not dirty, not too clean either.
It has a male body smell, mixed with tobacco and weed smoke.
And it’s comfortable.
Not the shape: it’s too big;
nor the texture: too rough when touching your skin (your t-shirt has no sleeves).
Around you, plastic white chairs written in black by the many travellers that where there before you,
just like the chair you’re sitting at.
A banch and a stool, wooden made.
The verandah.
A car plate from Western Australia and a 10 cents Euro coin from Ireland.
Towels hanging from a string,
waiting to be dried in the rain.
A bottle of Diet Home Brand Cola – refilled with water
and a smaller bottle of water,
next to some shoes, sandals.
A lifestyle: backpackers.
And you’re there, but just a spectator.
You’re not with people you know, you know just one of them,
and he’s gone.
You decide to stay there anyway,
look for some more scrap paper and keep writing.
But then,
the red paper is no longer red,
it’s white,
and kills your inspiration.
Helena Arroyo
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