A storm is brewing. Leaves are tousled in the wind. The dark silky clouds swallow the rays of the sun, one by one. It’s as though someone shook up the Earth, allowing dark dye to consume the outer reaches of our planet. I sit here, with my cup of coffee and my poetic opinion of this storm, and I ponder the existence of man. Often as a child I never felt as though I was alive, not really. The clouds have started to unleash their moisture, and my cat busts through the porch door crying to me in confusion of his new momentary environment.
If I didn’t think about such asinine notions maybe I would have gotten farther along in this artificial world. Then again, where is the fun in that? Asinine is an opinion anyway. The rain has stopped, and now the world is wet and calm. The ominous clouds still linger, and I don’t think the storm is over yet.
Honestly, the storm is never over. There are only breaks of light and calm between the storms, no matter how far apart they ever are.