The Wretch and His Storm

Over my head, the sky thunders and the clouds swirl and swoop like murderous dragons. Their blazing tongues of fire light up the world in blinding bursts of lightning, while the trees below sway like frenzied spectators. The wind and the rain lash at my face, a furious flurry of silver.

Drenched as I am, I cannot help but gaze on. I have become one with the trees and the grassroots at my feet, and the crying walls with the gaping windows. As I stand there, helplessly riveted, the mundane streets with their infuriating detail and irrelevant distractions disappear.

The grand contest that rages above is terrifyingly beautiful and intimate, elegant masters at play. It sends waves of ecstasy down the fields and the hard stone, and so it went for a long, long time, and now the world around me is pure again.

I stand in silence for a long time, breathless and happy.

There it is again. The sun worms its way out like a repulsive insect, fat and gross.

I long for the dragons to return, and the cold damp of the storm. I long for the world to be awash in the glorious light of the storm, and the wind and the rain.

I squirm as the sun glares at me, in disgust and anger. My eyes water and my skin burns.

I crawl back to the hole whence I emerged, and curl up in my familiar corner, waiting.