Something about the rain which is far too insistent, although of course this is illogical. But it is hard, when looking at the rain, in this moment, not to think that there is something with meaning here – some message that someone wants to get across with the neverending downpour, with the anger.
And while the beauty of the sunset across the fjord might be blurred, it is not diminished, nor lessened, by the rain; it is simply another touch, another aspect of the beauty, another stroke of the paintbrush.
While people run inside and forget that they are humans with passports and allergies and parents and goals, and remember only that they are wet and that they want to get inside – while that’s going on, no-one questions the rain. Because there it is, unstoppable and enormous, huge, bigger than we remembered, for aren’t all natural phenomena like that? Bigger and less controllable and more infinite than our imaginations can conjure up, for how could we imagine something as insane as the sky?
Pattering inside to warm clothes and beds while the first crash of thunder comes, rumbling and guttural and somehow otherworldly although it is indescribably of this world, more of this world and permanent than our little worlds of novels and zips and herbal teas.
And the sun may set over the fjord, and it may not, but we find ourselves watching it anyway, waiting for that moment where we can see something and maybe feel something, and in that millisecond perhaps dare to know something – about ourselves, about the world, about the rain.