Thunderstorms
Another entry from my writing journal. Now, these are really just half-thoughts. I realize there are places I could expand more, but this was pretty much what was in my head at the time. But I like it, so here you are.
There's a thunderstorm coming. I can feel it in the air. You know the feeling I'm talking about, right? Something shifts in the atmosphere and suddenly your skin feels half a size too tight, there's an itch at the back of your brain, a minuscule dose of adrenaline worms its way through your veins, and in your chest your heart beats just a little faster, all combining into a miniature symphony equal parts excitement and dread.
My sister told me once that she loved the rain, but could do without the thunder and lightning. I disagree. My first thought was that I was exactly the opposite--I hated the rain, but loved the thunder and lightning. Lightning is like a wild animal, simultaneously beautiful and deadly. When you look at it from far off, it's mesmerizing beauty is like a siren, almost drawing you closer for a brief moment. You have no idea the sheer amount of force and power you're witnessing.It's hypnotizing. And thunder; thunder is incredible. Thunder isn't deceptive like lightning. If lightning is the siren, thunder is the god--it's power is clearly heard. And there's something cool about that. Thunder vibrates under your skin and resonates through your bones and echoes around your skull and lets you know you're alive.
I used to think that I hated the rain. But there are different kinds of rain. I think the rain I hate is the kind that only falls one drop at a time, the kind that gets you just wet enough to be annoying. Even rain that falls heavier but isn't a true thunderstorm with thunder and lightning is missing something. Thunderstorm rain is more than rain. It's a phenomenon all it's own, as if the water itself is charged with electricity. It's vital and alive and flowing with energy and force.
That's it. Until next time!
There's a thunderstorm coming. I can feel it in the air. You know the feeling I'm talking about, right? Something shifts in the atmosphere and suddenly your skin feels half a size too tight, there's an itch at the back of your brain, a minuscule dose of adrenaline worms its way through your veins, and in your chest your heart beats just a little faster, all combining into a miniature symphony equal parts excitement and dread.
My sister told me once that she loved the rain, but could do without the thunder and lightning. I disagree. My first thought was that I was exactly the opposite--I hated the rain, but loved the thunder and lightning. Lightning is like a wild animal, simultaneously beautiful and deadly. When you look at it from far off, it's mesmerizing beauty is like a siren, almost drawing you closer for a brief moment. You have no idea the sheer amount of force and power you're witnessing.It's hypnotizing. And thunder; thunder is incredible. Thunder isn't deceptive like lightning. If lightning is the siren, thunder is the god--it's power is clearly heard. And there's something cool about that. Thunder vibrates under your skin and resonates through your bones and echoes around your skull and lets you know you're alive.
I used to think that I hated the rain. But there are different kinds of rain. I think the rain I hate is the kind that only falls one drop at a time, the kind that gets you just wet enough to be annoying. Even rain that falls heavier but isn't a true thunderstorm with thunder and lightning is missing something. Thunderstorm rain is more than rain. It's a phenomenon all it's own, as if the water itself is charged with electricity. It's vital and alive and flowing with energy and force.
That's it. Until next time!