To the Storm

The storm clouds rolled in not too long after I had realized what had been going on. Unfortunately this was not a dream, but a nightmare of harsh reality. The sky was a deep, deep velvety purple. The storm clouds were charcoal. The veins of lightening that came every now and then lit up the charcoal-colored clouds, and made them feel something, if only for a moment. The rain was not yet present, but the impatient cries of the thunder could not wait. I am in my room – awake, coherent. The clouds and their cries are conjuring something, what is it? Sheepishly, I am at my window. The storm had been brewing for a few days, not only in the sky, but inside of me. It begged me to speak up. After a while, it grew tired yet volatile. And from my insides out, it destroyed whatever it could – whatever was in its path. It did not let me speak. It did not let me eat. It did not let me sleep. It tortured me. Because it knew I tortured myself. The storm that was inside of me has wrecked all of the homes that I had built. And has killed all of the people who lived there. I fell to my knees at my window. I asked the velvet purple sky, the charcoal-colored clouds, and the sporadic veins of light, why couldn’t the storm stay outside of me. I put my head down. The thunder cried. The storm spoke to me. It said:

Why is it so different with this one? Why are you so quiet, so destructive? You have become a black abyss, and anyone that tries to even set foot near you becomes lost. They are swallowed by the darkness with no hope of veins of light. You are so sensitive, so vulnerable, so naive. I wish you knew that this is not how life is supposed to be; I wish you knew of the radical movement that is also known as living. Why have you been so quiet, dear? Why have you been so complacent? You have not been yourself for a while…you have retracted. You have been sad. You have been anxious. You have been worried. You have been so cautious with this one – so cautious and so obeying. You have restricted yourself in fear of restricting your heart. Does he know you? Does he care about you? Does he wonder at all about what will become? About what you are? You have not spoken your true thoughts to anyone but us: why is that? Are you afraid? Are you lying to yourself, to the world, to him? Or have you just not yet found the balance of yourself? Have you not yet found how many doses he can take of you before his world goes numb? Or has he had enough, and he’s smart to walk away? Because, honey, you are the highest dosage risk that no one is willing to swallow. You have been building me inside of yourself for 23 years, but you have never rained. And when it rains, only then will the storm be set free.

I watched the storm calm, but not entirely. I cried, and the thunder weeped until it fell into a somber slumber. The veins of light were gone, but I knew they would be back. After its wise words, I bellowed in my bed like a tick to fur, a leech to fatty flesh. I knew it would be back for me. And I knew it was still inside. I knew I couldn’t rain yet, because whenever I do, it will pour, and everyone around me will drown.

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