As usual, I pulled the drapes apart and pushed all four window panes wide open upon smelling the trace of the coming rain. The wind came in billowy waves, filling my room with a fresh, clean ‘it-gonna-rain’ scent. After standing by the window for five minutes, waiting for the sight of the slanted sheets, the rhythm of the falling rain did come. And I realised something interesting has occured right in front of my eyes.
Across my windows, I have a view of the carpark and beyond. And the rain is falling in the further half of the carpark, and beyond. My half of the carpark is totally dry and untouched except for the streams of rivulets on the ground that trickle over from the further half. The carpark is divided in a straight line between the rainy side and the dry side, as if an invisible wall is present. And it has been this way for the past twenty minutes.
It seems surreal. As if I am immersed in the rain, yet not quite. As if I am involved in the mystical phenomenon, yet kept out of it to prevent the moving picture from being ruined. On the outside, looking in.