The coming storm

A storm is coming. The provocative scent of pine intermingling with the early August bloom is refreshing. Slinking from the north upon the shoulders of the cool wind, growing, expanding, darkening -- it comes...My senses are teased by the wind obeying a rhythm unknown to mortal dance or song.

Though fearful I am, comfort I find in the coming of the storm.

Oh, the cleansing power of nature -- adrenaline exploding into a cathartic implosion; my fingers tingle, my core is strangely warmed by a seemingly supernatural sensation at conflict with the anvil's chill. Two natural realities find an equilibrium, 'supernatural' says the self. But balance is short-lived, it is snatched away by question -- inductive conditioning, nature from linear perspective.

The storm comes....

The roar is loud, the moisture very thick now...the whole of the storm definitively unpredictable. Born from the butterfly wings of somewhere, nowhere to be forgotten. Such is characteristic of all things real...from the fantastical unicorns of the mind to the harsh world of faltering beings.

Looking up into the eyes of the darkness that engulfs me, there are vapor molecules, wind, clouds...but also space invaders hidden by their cloud-like shields, a doorway to a dimension where midieval Knights compete for the hand of a fair-maiden...I can see myself, my life -- gnosis intrigues, time ceases and God reminds me of my mortality.

The revelatory shock is as sharp as a knife, the quake as loud as stampeding rhinos. I am afraid. When the water begins to trickle upon my brow, when the sweat of my mortality is slowly washed away, I stand there helplessly humbled by the sudden surge of humility in love.