We are the storm.
We are the dark clouds of intentions filling the sky with meaning and meaninglessness. The collection of thoughts and improbabilities that surface momentarily and are gone, that blow through the cascades of lives that see but a moment of time upon the backdrop of existence. The fell spiral of desire coalescing amongst the tallest sights, falling back upon the basic belief that all things can be worked out. The haze that splinters clear thought and produces rashness, harshness, ill conceived plans that look good but turn poorly upon the page.
We are the peal of thunder spearing through the evening demesne of time and tide. The spiritual beachhead of incongruity spreading ever farther and faster within the house of darkness wrought. The echo of countless cries for help that have fallen on deaf ears, turned blindly against the wake of mercy. The howl of countless throats raised against the night and the fears that hold the darkness deep within our hearts with pain and with rage.
We are the actinic crack of lightning that shoots through the bracken of wasted potential, the soul suck that slips into the slightest of crevice and twists the words that could bring Brightness into being. The cancerous leech of wrack and ruinous plans spent against the brightest minds and fouled with personal glory, sullied by unsubtle greed and the ground, running red, a giant laid waste upon the ground, and made to bleed.
We are the rain of blood and viciousness that washes away all hope, all forgiveness, all desire to produce wondrous results. The torrential violence of space strewn across perception and capability. The essence of Life, boiled into droplets, and splattered across the Cosmos, both the infinite, and the singular, all, wrapped up with the same desperate need to be … something … different!
We are the storm!
We are the cleansed sky, bright and blue, and full of new. The open frontier of existence, unpainted, unpretentious, unrepentantly joyous in the day and the ability to find new ways. The blossom of green, growing things and the rise to greatness from smallest sense of serenity, to the greatest gift of magnanimity.
We are the calm air that washes over and brings peace, and the potential for prosperity. The dry soul, full of the burst of chaos that breeds living things and spreads across the land, the sea, the air in ways so myriad and diverse, that neither mention nor measure can ever compare.
We are the memory of pain and loss, of suffering and great deeds wrought against — or for — darkness; the soul searing prod that reminds from where we came, from where we arose. The ideations that we, as individuals and as collectives both draw our greatest strengths and weaknesses from. The knowledge, that where we are now, was bought with immense effort, and prices paid, in order for us to attain the state that we are in now.
We are the remains of the sundered realms of thought, to Earth and beyond, these gifts are brought. The cleansing splash of water to surface that rinses clean the ill wrought devices of what could have been and what was. The new born slate, freed from the mistakes of the pasts, but clearly worded, that those things that have passed, can always return, and a good accounting of those things, will in turn, bring progress and the ability to rise above both the ground, the sky, the limitations of mind and hand and soul.
We are the Storm!
The two edged sword of existence, both Bright and Dark. The harbingers of self, combined, contained, commingled within the weapon of self. This game need neither win, nor lose; merely being is game enough to continue to play.
We are ALL the Storm! Go play in the rain!