Rain Rain Go

Three months of continuous rain.

The people here, usually a sun-loving breed, had been thrust into a collective battle against nature. I saw them on the streets, their hair plastered to their skulls, their clothes clinging to their bodies like second skins. Yet, despite the adversity, there was a peculiar camaraderie in their soaked solidarity. The city had been transformed into a waterlogged wonderland, and its people weathered the storm with a mix of resilience and grim humour. Commuters, armed with umbrellas now as useful as a screen door on a submarine, waged war against the endless downpour. It was a surreal spectacle reminiscent of a dystopian carnival, with La Niña as the ringmaster and the people of Sydney as the unwitting participants. Does then the ‘man on the street’, soaked to the bone but with a gleam of defiance in his eyes, become a living testament to the indomitable human spirit? Perhaps it’s not that grand. But I can’t look away. Each raindrop is a punctuation mark in a narrative written by a celestial typewriter gone haywire, and the people of Sydney are characters in a story told in liquid ink.