It has awoken, above and within me. Dark clouds, a darker night and rumblings to deafen. This storm is mine, nobody will ever see it as I have done, from here, from now and from me. To tame it, to have it walk obediently alongside, will never happen. We try to give it face and flesh. “The storm shouted, moaned, cried.” It does none of these things, it is not of us. As much heed as we pay the ants that scurry beneath, so the storm passes on.
I won’t ever be able to entirely tell anyone of this. How it was for me, to see and hear, the world as it is at this moment. To write is to try and jump that impossible divide, and to hope beyond hope that some will take the leap themselves and meet you midway. The worst won’t grasp anything. Perhaps take a jumbled word or two and run with it in a direction all their own, forming a storm bereft of yours. The majority will see it from an angle, mark the outline or the mood. A crude resemblance and a basic connection, this is nothing to be mocked. Then there’s those held closest. Those who can’t begin to be described in words, nor times nor anything. Those who walk with your mind. They will get the closest, speak to them, and they will see the ghost of the storm in your eyes. They will know you for truth.
Keep them close, however many or few they may be. I won’t ever be leaving mine, I think I could see the ghost in her eyes staring right back at me.
None of us can deny the moments, we all wait for the broken sky. For that original camera flash of electric blue, when nothing else shrouds the world. In those moments we understand, and we fear. For once we let go, and our minds flit where they will. To those that move us, that we want, need, yearn to be with as the heights fall down upon on us. So I ask, when the storm comes, when the thunder rolls and lightning stains the dark, whose face will you see in the blue?
The Reverium 