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A Window to My Own Mind

There’s something about rain that feels like a mirror. It’s as if the world outside has slowed down just enough for me to hear the echo of my own thoughts. The city is therealive, breathing but behind the rain-streaked glass, I feel both present and not present. Here, yet floating somewhere in the soft grayness that hangs over London.

Days like this pull me inward. They whisper to the parts of me I try to ignore when the sun is out. I become both the observer and the ghost watching droplets race each other down the window, watching people below hurry with umbrellas, while my own existence feels paused. It’s in this pause that my thoughts become louder, heavier, more honest.

Melancholy has a way of making everything more creative. Words slip out easier when the world feels like it’s dissolving into rain. I write with an ache in my chest that I can’t quite name, a mix of longing and stillness. I find beauty in the gloom, because in it, I can sit with myself without distraction.

There’s a strange comfort in this kind of loneliness. It’s the kind that doesn’t scream but hums softly, like a song only I can hear. And maybe that’s why I love days like this because they remind me that being alone doesn’t always mean being empty. Sometimes, it just means seeing the world and yourself more clearly.