Once thought to be wrath of gods living in clouds, they shoot daggers of light and shake the earth and send daggers down into the world or our fleeting moralities. Nothing was more powerful than the wrath of a higher power. Someone had wronged the gods of our sun and stars, and now they were being punished.
It’s easy, now, to look out our windows and stand on our porches and see this long~forgotten holy wrath raging down upon our houses and neighborhoods. Winds that rip limbs from trees and turn towns into wastelands.
The storms come, and with some come destruction. Fractured lives, a world lost forever. A place whose only hope is to rebuild, only to have another storm beat upon them again. Over and over, an endless hurricane; a tornado that never dissipates.
Some people are storms. They destroy everything they touch. They keep their hands bound by sleeves and watches and bracelets. Some people know it, some people don’t. Some people watch every relationship crumble at their fingertips and can crush a person’s heart within their own painfully fragile hands.
Wild and untamed, but strange in its own beauty. Soft in its showers and fascinating in its booms of thunder that echo inside our chests. The storms outside sometimes echo the storms inside.
But then the sun comes out, and everything is fresh and new and all at once we are grateful for the storm, for with it comes a love for the light.
Yet we stand there, on our porches watching them as they rage. As we breathe in their scents and watch their phenomena as if it were brand new. We curl up on our couches and smile at every crack of thunder as we open our books and pull our blankets tightly around our shoulders as the windows flash with brilliant fire.
Sometimes, we allow ourselves to believe that we have tamed the storms, and all are safe tonight.
~Of Rainy Days