it rains in hell.

It's eleven o'clock at night and I'm back in my old apartment. It's raining. My sneakers are filled with water and my feet feel heavy. I was going to say it's raining like hell, but I bet hell has never seen such amount of water. This morning I had to buy an over-expensive cheap umbrella - I don't know what happened to the previous one. I never do. It's the Mandela effect. What if I never had one?

    I like to fantasize this way. I read a Murakami novel once when suddenly the main character looks up at the sky and notices there are two moons. And everyone else doesn’t think much of it except her. 

    Anyway. I'm not the kind of person who's afraid of storms, but this is an old building and I always sleep with my windows wide open. I woke up at 4 with water all over the floor. The wind was crazily loud and I could listen to things falling apart in the street. Alarm systems ringing in the distance.

    Hours later, I woke up to a flood.

    Now I'm climbing the five flights of stairs – face down, pacing slow. My feet echoes in the aged paving and I'm in no rush. A cockroach tries to climb up my left foot and I let it. I don't want to step on it. Then I see it fly away.

    I let my socks dry in the hallway and walk my way to my room, which is a mess. I still have bags to unpack. Supposedly this is where I live now. I should probably make this my legal address, but I don't think I want to. For starters, I don't have a mailbox, so I wouldn't be able to receive any letters. And also I like my legal address to be my parents'. I guess it's a way to feel like a part of me is still there.

    These days I went to a drawing class. I posed as a face model for the students. I share the same name with the other girç, but she passed out after a while. It's hard to stand still for so many hours, but I did it again later that week – this time as a nude. 

    I've also been selling wines and working on chic stores openings. It's been good. Money is tight, but I'm having great experiences. I'll be walking in a fashion show in a few days. In a castle. It's a period piece.

    I’ve been writing by hand every other day. In a small notebook I now have in my bedside table. I wouldn’t call it a diary nor a journal, even though that’s probably what it is. And I’m having fun. Writing for the sake of it. To no one, with no intention of publishing it.

    The good thing about the rain is that it keeps me indoors. If the sun’s out, I'm out. In the rain I get introspective. I allow myself to sit bored at my desk and write something, whatever it is. This joy of the creative process keeps me sane.