I always wanted to go to Paris in a past life — and my time travels did take me there, to my great excitement, even though it was nighttime and raining.
Then I saw the Parisian woman. She dressed, of course, in the style of her day: what would later be called “art deco” era. But she was crying. And she simply ran in the rain — with no umbrella — out to a lonely bench.
Invisible, as always, I yet remained still and at a distance.
She sobbed and sobbed. I felt her sadness — her mourning or yearning for something — more like waves smothering me than the rain that was actually lightly falling.
Sometimes, people seek out rain because it’s the only thing they can identify with.