Waking in the middle of the night to deafening thunderstorms and the hammering of rain on the roof, I glance around me through the wispy veil of the mosquito net. My room flickers, appearing like a fragile wooden box. Outside in the courtyard, the water pouring on the ground produces a deep, rhythmic resonance, trying to penetrate my consciousness. The sound feels familiar, somehow connected with the idea of water in my body. “Water with water.” I close my eyes, trying to ignore this strange thought. Instead, the sound of the rain begins to acquire a more specific dimension inside my mind. The vast mass, falling restlessly like a waterfall, starts to split into infinite layers, like a crowd of anonymous voices whispering in unknown languages. I seem to feel the burst of every single drop among billions smashing against the surface of the house.
After a while, the deafening sound subsides and, as the rain abates, a second noise arises, a cacophony of frogs echoing through the dark. Then the rain regains strength as if trying to defeat the frogs’ frenzy and the amphibian mantra slowly fades away.