Visions that encompass me

When I look into myself, to find my inspiration to write, there is always a scene that my mind plays back to me. If you could take the culmination of what you are feeling and create a place that was the representation of it what would it look like? That is how The City of Rain was born. For me it is the ultimate representation, the metaphor, for my artistic mind. Well that's pretty depressing you say. I beg to differ, it perhaps can be a very somber place, however I find it quite comforting.

The streets are grey cobblestone, the houses are all similar to small mill houses. The windows are old panes, smeared on the edges with paint and time. The doors are worn, the handles shine from people passing through. The town is silent except for the penetrating sound of soft rain, falling on the rooftops, the tree leaves, and splashing on the street. The sky is thick with clouds, the blue of the sky softly radiates through them, giving the grey tones a soft muted blue hue, the world feels cool and serene. The dampened colors and the perpetual pit-pat of the rain envelop me in a comforting world deprived of any sensations but ones born of the natural world. There are no cars humming on the street, not telephones ringing, no people crowding and talking, nothing to ignite that alert state of sensory abuse we live in.

The constant rain is something that always drives my mind into a contemplative state. People so often recognize rain as something to do with tears and depression. Soft gentle rains that nourish our world are favor poured out onto us. Rain is an amazing thing, powerful at times and frightening, but is also able to lull us into the most peaceful sleeps. It can represent our mood more truly than many things, providing us with a sense of understanding. Feeling that our state of mind has some how been picked up on and mirrored by the world is comforting to us.

There is always a small chapel, empty except for me. A very small cemetery outside guarded by a large oak tree. The chapel is the only place I ever enter into in this city. The rest of my time is spent peering into windows. Only two people besides myself have ever existed in this city. A little girl drawing figures on a broken window sitting in the grass, and a middle aged traveler. Perhaps in these things I see each stage of our mental lives. An unabashed creativity in the child, the ever-seeking, ever-changing, life of the middle aged traveler, and the culmination of all things in the small grave yard.

What does your place look like?