Hamilton Trash 2: The Sequel

Hurricane

When standing motionless with the warm, humid wind causing an immense form of confusion around his or her state of mind, one must look to the sky.
The ochre sky.
The wind would suddenly vanish, disappear as if the previous events were only just a foolish, abstract dream.

There would be no sound.
The trees that were once bending would stand proudly, as if they had survived the worst of the storm.
In the eye of a hurricane, the burning eye looks down upon those who would sacrifice anything, anyone, to preserve the seemingly positive thought the public ponders.

There is a story of a man, a man who stood in that very same hurricane, both in a figurative and physical manner. Listen closely, however...

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1772 or 1774*
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The small island of  St. Croix had experienced a disastrous hurricane.
Many died. Many drowned. Seventeen year old Alexander wrote a letter, a poem of great detail describing the tragic events of the storm. His writing was astonished by many, the public saying that the adolescent had such skill and natural aptitude with words. He had written the only thing his intelligent mind could see. His poem baffled the leaders of the community, and they decided that self-education and a small island in the Caribbean would not cover for the young man's ancient, cultivated mind. They gathered funds that would soon determine Alexander's future in New York.

Hamilton wrote his way to success, to revolution, to marriage, to the constitution, to financial systems. He had written his way out of death itself, out of life, out of abstract hope. He wrote his way to a safe haven.
An ochre sky.

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1768*
-

When young Alexander was twelve years of age, both he and his mother were stricken with a grave fever, his mother passing away on February 19.
This had left poor Alexander severely emotionally unstable, even for a child in the 1700's. He had begun to see and feel reality in a different point of view, and the depressed Alexander self-educated himself.

And here he was, standing outside once again, pondering over how the public would perceive him now.
Write, he thought.
Write.
Write.
He knew that pressure he had brought upon himself would soon wound his reputation, but not his legacy.
No, his legacy was preserved. It was always preserved. He would've destroyed his own arrogant self if it wasn't.
Write.
Write.
Write the only thing his intelligent mind could see.
A thought had appeared in the corner of his never ending reality forbidden brain, a thought that implored him to simply slow down, to think.
Think.

No.
He wouldn't.
Thinking cannot solve world situations, thinking cannot resolve battles in war-torn countries, no, thinking could not aid the impoverished.
Thinking had no place in this poisoned world, but action.
Action.

Yes, action creates war.
Action could plummet the impoverished into ruins.
Action aids a hunger stricken orphan desperate to survive.
Action provides opportunities, opportunities that could preserve one's legacy.

Hamilton's mind could not hold these thoughts any longer. He was overwhelmed, for he knew that his story would soon be on quill and ink one day, with numerous people judging and creating false ideas of his childhood, of his life.
These thoughts could not be concealed by society, by those who are unreal, untalented.
The blurry, ochre sky.
Hamilton had to force the unmoving into moving action, and he would do what he does best.
He would write.

His archaic mind would write until he couldn't.

He would overwhelm the overwhelming, and crush his enemies into ruin with only quill and ink.
Why?
Because he was desperate for an escape from the protruding world of death.
Because the ochre sky could not hold his dependent thoughts for any longer.
Because his thoughts had formed into a vengeful hurricane, and this was the eye of the hurricane, and this was the only way he could protect his crumbling legacy.

What was this?

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*For you history buffs, it's controversial whether Hamilton was born in the year 1757 or 1755.

*Again, I'm not sure if this is the right date.