I shower my soul in the rain

Rain gets into your body. Rain gets into your soul. Rain gets into my writing — it’s sad, it’s miserable, it’s rainy.

I came back to Kyiv from Warsaw on Saturday. Rain has been making everything around me wet ever since. It has been making me wet, too, in my infrequent sorties to supermarkets and coffee shops. October is the season of rain. Spaces become palpably connected. Rain is like a hyphen that joins a heavenly metaphor with a mundane meaning. Here comes the rain again. Skies are watering all the way down on earth. The above is now wet leaves falling from trees. It’s the streaks in puddles left from raindrops. It’s heavy jackets sodden with water. It’s human faces saddened with the tears from the skies. The above is the below now.

Rain somehow seeps from the street into my flat. The space gets wet, the space gets damp, the space gets cold because the season of heating is yet to come. The walls smell of earthy mould, umami fungus and tiny spiders hiding in small holes. Clothes take an eternity to dry up. I wear semi-dry jeans only for the rain to wash them again when I go out. How handy would it be if rain came mixed with washing powder? Actually, judging from the state of the environment, maybe it does come in a 2-in-1 bundle. So efficient. Humans make everything so efficient. Creating…