The Storm

The sky rumbles like thousands of soldiers marching over a hilltop. Overhead, a storm rolls in, its clouds dark, nearly black, and its winds whipping through the air, hot mixing with cold as the stickiness of the day subsides. Half the sky remains a bright, intoxicating shade of blue, but it won’t last much longer. Nothing so perfect ever can.

The darkness brewed slowly at first, gray clouds morphing into conduits of a great storm. Now, it comes quickly. There is no stopping something with so much power. One can only sit and wait. And watch. Like watching fighters in an arena, forced to maul each other to death. There can be beauty in it—in the blood, in the fragility of human life—but it’s a horrific scene, not the type most can glue their eyes to.

Electricity courses through the air, bringing hairs to stand on end. It begins to gather in bolts of lightning, dancing in the sky, but they don’t strike. Not yet. They’re waiting until they can no longer hold back. Until they’ve reached their tipping point. The restraint creates an intoxicating chaos, leaving the world to wonder: How much longer? 

The ocean churns. White-capped waves swirl the aqua of a calm day’s water into the dark blue of the abyss that the storm threatens to bring.

The squawking of seagulls is nearly lost in the whirlwind as they signal to one another to retreat inland. Their wings may be small, but they carry them quickly ashore. It’s nature in tandem with itself, life recognizing the implications of atmospheric changes. 

But not everyone can sense the storm before it comes, not even when it’s staring them straight in the eyes. Later, they will say nobody could have predicted it. But if they had only paid attention, they would have known. Whether they were standing on the storm’s edge or within its eye, they had simply blinded themselves to the reality. 

The calm before the storm, they would call it. But even through their obliviousness, nature always knew. It always feels it coming.

But even if it can predict the storm, there is nothing it can do to make it stop.

In the distance, the twisting light of a lighthouse fades from view. There will be no way out. No way to find land. It’s too late to call for help. Cries will only fall on deaf ears, lost in the violence.

Times like these can be as much about the bliss of freedom as they are the fear of being trapped. Nobody is coming to help. But what does that mean? It doesn’t have to mean the end. It doesn’t have to create despair. Complete autonomy is granted to all who find themselves in this position. Entirely alone.

Some never realize that they can come to their own rescue, and they are left waiting to be pulled out, never accepting that they are responsible for their own salvation. Others learn the truth, some quickly and some in time. They escape.

Sometimes, their triumph is only met with more dark clouds. If they choose not to falter, not to give in to the hopelessness on the horizon, they emerge from the darkness once again. Every climb they make is easier than the last.

The roar of thunder grows louder, more frequent, and finally, the lightning strikes down. Bolts of white, red, and purple crash against the water, sending their currents across its surface. As they obliterate the barrier between land and sky, fat droplets of rain begin to fall. They are few at first, and inconsistent, but not for long.

The clouds have overtaken the sky completely. Sunlight is too distant to see. If it even exists. There’s no way to prove it. For all anyone knows, it’s gone. Forever.

If a tree falls in a forest and nobody is around to hear it, does it make a sound? Of course. One just needs to believe it. To trust in the legitimacy of the human experience. 

If the sun disappears from the sky and nobody for a thousand miles can see it, does it still exist? Or has it burnt out? One must keep faith in the truth of the former. The sun still exists, and it will come again, even after the storm.

At last, the sky gives birth to the rain. 

The world drowns beneath the downpour as the pressure of holding back is released. Thunder, rain, and lightning know no bounds. Nor do the winds or the darkness. They let loose.

The havoc they wreak is beyond comprehension, but when all is said and done and the world is quiet once again, the world breathes a sigh of relief. The sun rises again, and the sky returns to its bright, vivid blue. The dark storm clouds disappear, replaced by gentle fair-weather white. 

Outlasting the storm is a victory, but there will always be another, each one different than the last. There will always be an escape to make, a faith to maintain. A strength to be built. Thunder, rain, and lightning know no bounds, nor do the winds or the darkness. But neither does the world their forces bear down upon.

One way or another, the storm will always give way.