Thunderstorms

           The pure whiteness of the sun’s glare made her miss the thunderstorms of hours past. Not that she didn’t appreciate mornings -the sweet birds and mellow grass- quite the contrary. Lately however, nothing seemed absolute and the birds and grass were caged in glass. No – she was caged in glass. The glass was phenomenally thin, undetectable when glanced at, and that’s what tugged at her the most. If her uncertainty was certain, she’d like to think she would be more satisfied. But the cards are never dealt in one dimension.

What she found perfectly funny was that the more distant her memory, the more she reminisced it with exactitude. The healing knee scab that was scraped again, the lollipop rewards, even the laser tagging and hot dogs. She thought of this as she ate her omelet, a morning routine tended with time. She thought of this still when she made her bed and arranged her clothes. Small scatterings kept on popping up the carpet of her bedroom, and truthfully she did not want to gather her energy to gather those little pieces of discarded materials. She could not help feeling like psychologist when she decided that her unwillingness to clean her carpet was very much correlated with her uneasiness of her own perception.

Of course, this morning her thoughts were like the lemonade with too much lemon and consequently too much sugar: concentrated and blunt. She did not always ask. Most days she lived with placid awareness of her condition towards life, and continued rather than pause. But today there were thunderstorms.

She asked her dad, later on that day, when they shook the earth. He told her around three at night. She remembered the brilliant flashes of electricity that pulled her from her nest. The rain and hail pellets struck her roof and her window with rhythmic symmetry. The sky could have dropped at any moment. She thought the miracle of the storm to be enough, but another miracle was performed that early morning. Mind you, she did not want to compare her little anthropogenic moment with the deserving grandeur of nature, but she could not help but feel awe for the second miracle. See, the thunderstorms had roused her to consciousness, but then they swaddled her back to the depths. And as her mid-slumber transformed to a whole again, she felt so warm, so in accord, and quite complete. She knew she could reach out, as far as she wanted.

Life had spoken a word to her then, in the clarity and warmth of thunder and lightning. It told her that night was limited, and come the morning there would be no more storm to wash away the glass. Life spoke these words with nothing but compassion, nothing but a desire for the receiver to understand the necessary fallacy of existence. So she chose to listen, and slept as a free creature to awake ready for the weight of being.

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2 thoughts on “Thunderstorms

  1. What a lovely reflection~

    That storm totally awed me. I crept downstairs to watch the rain and the lightning. I couldn’t see past the end of the driveway for a few minutes. I can’t recall ever seeing a storm so fierce before (it was that crazy lightning that made it so impressive, I think…).

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