When the monsoon arrives early, the flat becomes a studio with one window and infinite grey. Plans dissolve. What remains is time — unscheduled, unhurried, slightly inconvenient.
I used to treat rain as lost hours. Now I treat it as enforced stillness. The laptop stays closed for the first hour. Tea cools slowly. I listen to the sound against the glass and let thoughts arrange themselves without my interference.
Patience in writing works the same way. You cannot force a conclusion. You can sit with the draft while it rain-streaks against the window of your mind, trusting that clarity arrives on its own schedule.