Писатель Илья Розенфельд

The rain always began the same way — first a gentle breeze, filling the air with something ancient, then the first drops falling like tentative strokes of an invisible brush. People hurried to find shelter, but he stood in the middle of the street, arms outstretched, as if trying to catch something unseen. “What are you doing out there?” she asked, watching him from beneath the café’s awning. He turned slowly, with the unhurried confidence of someone who knows something others don’t. “I’m listening to the rain,” he replied. She smirked. “Oh? Is it telling you fairy tales ?” “In a way, yes.” He looked up. The raindrops fell on his face, sliding down his cheeks, but he didn’t blink. “Rain isn’t just water,” he continued. “It’s memory. The memory of everything that’s ever lived.” She raised an eyebrow. “Right. Scientists have proven you can find DNA in rain drops…” “Not just DNA. Memories.” Now she was intrigued. “You’re saying that in this rain, there could be…” ...

Listening to the same melody, different people envisioned different pictures of reality—the one they desired or the one they lacked. Some heard the music of rain and imagined it tapping on their windows, flowing down gutters, washing the world, erasing dirt and hostility, creating a new, clean, kind, and beautiful world—without wars, poverty, or epidemics. Without drought. And they saw this rain so vividly that they reached out to it, anticipating the sensation of drops falling on their palms. Others imagined a different reality: they saw cutlets frying in a pan of sizzling oil. They saw the cutlets so clearly that they salivated in anticipation of dinner. For them, cutlets symbolized a world without hunger. A world in which they wanted to live, surrounded by care. And to be satiated. A third group envisioned a picture of themselves in a shower, under a stream of warm water. And with them in the shower was a loved one, and to the sound of the water, they made love. These people most ...