Rain has always held a special place in my writing. Partly because Melbourne, the city I have spent the last few years living, constantly rains. But beyond this, I have a deep respect for this elemental force.

Growing up, one of my favourite things to do was to run outside in the rain. I would imagine that each rain drop was a drop of gold and my goal was to catch as many as possible. Each time a drop hit my face, I would laugh and delight at this gift from the heavens. It made me feel at one with nature, the wetness seeping into my soul.

Rain symbolises a number of things. In media, rain often represents unhappiness or melancholy; when someone is ‘awash’ with sadness. But it can also represent rebirth and renewal, the washing away of the past, shown in the ending of The Lion King. In a different context, rain can be symbolic of struggle or disorientation; there are few things more challenging than running through a storm. It is also commonly used to illustrate romance, such as Darcy’s confession in Pride and Prejudice.

At its core, the power of rain lies in the vulnerability it evokes. When caught under the rain, there is no avoiding its touch. Even if you have an umbrella, your feet will get wet. This elemental graffiti exposes one’s self to some degree, amplifying gloominess into despair, or playfulness into ecstasy. There is a stripping away, leaving one more vulnerable than before.

And in vulnerability, stories of human connection and perseverance emerge.

I was at a cafe yesterday when it began to rain. A young boy was jogging past. The shop owner yelled at the boy to come in for shelter; it seemed like they knew each other. The boy spread out his arms and had the biggest grin on his face, running faster and faster past the cafe, across the road into the downpour. I pictured myself at his age, doing the exact same thing.

I almost joined him.