It's about to storm outside. The hall smells like warm licorice. It's overwhelming. The weight of the air feels like a bed sheet. The kind that diffuses light in the morning and my eyelashes brush against it as I blink myself awake.
Outside, there is the metallic smell of earth, and the sweet smell of vegetation. Water makes everything bolder, fearless. The scent of the outdoors gets stronger when it gets wet, as it absorbs, breathes, comes to life. The smell gets into your upper sinuses - a cloud that floats into your brain and hangs there. Water atoms glide around each other, stirring thoughts.
I have a headache that sits like an animal at the back of my skull. It sulks there, cold and shuddering where my spine connects with my brain stem. I'm re-reading The Secret Garden and imagine this rain on the garden. Plump, warm drops enriching the secret. Whispering on each leaf. When I breathe the storm-pregnant air, it makes me excited for the coming release. It feels like I've swallowed something cottony but rich. It is as though I have walked to the back of my mouth, and I am looking down the sheer cliff of my throat, straight down into the pit of my stomach, and in it, I see life, that hot and glowing brick. I am exhilarated by the height, the thought of the drop. I imagine this is how raindrops feel: air rushing by their round faces, the thrilling fall, the eager anticipation to be accepted completely by the earth.
Rule: Splashing around in rain and puddles then taking a hot shower or bath is the best thing ever. No way that is not the best thing ever.