Dec 26, 2010
It's raining. The sounds come in clearly through the window: the faint, even pita-pata of raindrops on pavement; the quiet low rumble of faraway thunder, reassuring rather than frightening; the rustling of the trees bending and shuffling in the wind; the occasional sound of cars driving past my window, tires flicking up water and making a "shaaaaaa" sound on the wet ground.
Once in a while the cool breeze sents the wet, clean smell of rain into the room. The cool tendrils of air caress my hands, or feet, or face, and disperse into nothing, leaving only the impression of a slight chill on my skin. The world is cleansed by the rain, and the memories of heavy, sweltering days are washed away. The air seems lighter, as if a cool hand had lifted a smothering veil of warm air.
No one strays outside, no sound of frolicking children down the street, all evidence of human presence is diminished. The clattering of mahjong next door that was heard several nights in a row is missing, insects that screamed in the heat are silent, even the streetlights seem dimmed and the lights from houses across the streets are absent all together.
The sky darkens into night, the rain peters off. But for the the steady dripping of water from the roof, all is quiet.
My English tutor says my writing is lacking in descriptions, has too many long sentences and too many commas. I'm trying to work the description bit first. And because I love rain, of course.