Missing the clouds

Sometimes, for those whose mood depends on the weather, to be born in a Mediterranean country means that we spend most of our life with a smile on our faces. We live in a bright world and that's why we look forward to the arrival of spring, and later, the crowds of tourists who spend their money in our warm atmosphere. But, to tell the truth, the joy of the bright days doesn't help us to cultivate that part of our emotions related with the blues. We miss the feeling of thinking about the good old days while a soft rain wets our memory. Because of this, we have a lack of shady writers who are depressed as a result of the weather, and a surplus of those who have gone down into the emptiness that comes after a wild party. That's why I decided to spend a month in London. I could be the first Catalan artist to write due to the hollowness of the rainy routine in England. So, before deciding on the dates of my adventure, I phoned a friend who is a well-known weather forecaster to ask for advice about the best periods to travel to London. He didn't understand me when I told him that I was looking for rainy days and cloudy nights. Despite this, he gave me what I needed.

I arrived on Sunday and coming back on Monday. It was a complete defeat. I spent the first day taking notes about the people who were walking slowly to avoid slipping on the ground, and when I was tired of myself, I sat on a bench wondering about the book I would write thanks to this experience. When I arrived at the hotel, I spent the whole night trying to organise my notes of sadness and longing because I was convinced of my success. I would return to Catalonia with the smile of someone who is ready to be recognised. But the problems started the day after this feast of glory, when I woke with a deep sorrow in my soul. I didn't know why but I didn't want to go out because the weather was rainy as the day before. Again and again. Water. Clouds. More water. More clouds. The inspiration that I found on arriving in London had completely vanished. I could see myself lost in a cloud of desolation and I had nothing interesting to say. I remembered the song, Nowhere Man, by The Beatles and I felt like that. I started to pack my suitcase, disappointed because I hadn't been able to survive as a writer tormented by melancholy. In consequence, on taking off, when I was looking forward to sunbathing on the beaches of my childhood, I realised that I prefer to live in a Mediterranean country even if it means that I'm not going to be a decent writer. Maybe I won't be famous but I will be happier.