The rain in my head.

I am listening to the sound of rain.

I also shut my eyes and imagined sitting under the awning of a defunct store, somewhere off the mud road in rural India. Sitting there with my legs drawn close to my stomach. Up ahead in the distance, there is someone walking with a steel bucket. It's only a figure from where I sit, because the white rain blurs everything. 

The sound is beautiful; the muted plop of the rain on the red soil and the faraway thunder.

 

In my head, I am sitting there alone. Writing probably, on damp paper with pencil. I don't know what I'd write. I am taking slow, calculated breaths. I am taking in the smell of the rain, in its purest form, free of smoke and garbage and other urban worries. 

When I open my eyes, the rain has stopped. I am back where I started, but I am a happier person.