A little tap on the window-pane, as though something had struck it, followed by a plentiful light falling sound, as of grains of sand being sprinkled from a window overhead, gradually spreading, intensifying, acquiring a regular rhythm, becoming fluid, sonorous, musical, immeasurable, universal: it was the rain.
Marcel Proust, In search of lost time volume I – Swann’s way, p120
Proust. It’s just the rain. Wow.
Not for nothing, one face, one character, one fact, makes much impression on him, and another none.
Ralph Waldo Emerson, Self reliance, p11
If Proust could describe “just the rain” in such a poetic way, what great things would I have discovered if I trusted my thoughts and attempted to express myself fully? This is probably what I’m trying to do now.
Thoughts on the photo
I went with Dad to the market, not to help him with grocery shopping but to wander around with my camera. Aimless walking led me to the neighbourhood where I spent most of my childhood – Katong. It felt like my eyes worked harder whenever I was holding my camera. They see more. But were they seeing or just looking for ‘photo-worthy compositions’?
Anyway, I liked the yellow awning and the many houseplants around it. While I adjusted my aperture, it started to rain. I got a shot of the shed as I sought shelter under the awning. I remember being happy that it rained.
dyingtobeanartist 
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