There's something about impending storms. Simmering feelings, undefined under my chest close to my heart. I don't know what it is. But it's that feeling you get when the blocked light turns everything a shade of gloomy yellow, and if you raise your hand you touch the ceiling of the sky. You can pull down a cloud you know.
It's standing in a high place that does the trick. You're on top of the world, and everything is spread bare before you. The rain rolls in like a heavy curtain, and it hurts because it's in torrents. It's the gale that makes you feel small, makes you feel like you could be blown away, ashes to the wind. And it makes you feel invincible, back straight, standing against the end of the world.
I have loved the rain since forever. But what I found out was that I loved seeing the thunder storm brewing and rushing towards me just as much. That calm before the storm. It's addictive.
It's being unable to see 6 feet in front of you. It's hearing the water drum a symphony, the crack of lighting and the low snarl of thunder. It's hearing the wind whistle through that gap in the windows.
It's seeing the aftermath, the swelled banks, the crooked (broken) trees, the drowned sidewalks. And the smell of after rain, and the smoke of the city that never goes away anyway.
And I think: this is when I'm most alive.
I think: It's the end of the world, and no one can stop me.
