Once upon a time, there was a girl who found the place of the rain. In the city, the rain dropped softer against window and only touched her hair without soaking it. When she was outside she didn’t feel the rain anymore, it was as thin as air. Only when she stepped inside,
air turned into little drops of water
like beginnings turn into stories
like drops melt into keystrokes.
It was nothing more than the feeling for the right place. The city was everything and it could always be, from far away and nearby.
In June, I was there. When I left Porto, there was thin warm rain as if Dublin had stretched out his hands to the South to welcome me. It was colder though when I arrived. We watched the busy brewery from the balcony, had cups of black tea with milk; read Jeannette Winterson’s Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit and found a sentence for Jen’s master thesis and past, present and future times:
Round and round he walked, and so he learned a very valuable thing: that no emotion is the final one. (p. 48)
No weather is the final one either. There will always be a longing; for different weather, for a different place.
The keystrokes move with every change.