chrysalism
the tranquility of being indoors during a thunderstorm
imagine; you're in a pillow fort. it's october. you hear fat drops of rain hit your windows. it must be cold outside, but you have no less than three blankets on your lap. your tea is chamomile and steaming. you're not thinking of anything. you wish to see lightening, but none has yet arrived. when the thunder starts, your eyes want to droop. it's always put you to sleep. yet tonight you stay wide awake. the thunder sounds louder, clearer, and closer than before. the cracks and booms almost form words. you know without knowing that it's calling to you. as you realise this your breathing slows. you fight the drowsiness but it's as if the comprehension was a drug. the second you fall asleep, you're outside. the wind whips your hair into your eyes but it doesn't hinder your sight. even your house, miles away, is perfectly clear. your breathing feels enormous - like moving a mountain. your skin is cold and electricity ripples off of you in waves. the first bolt of lightening in the night sky. you are perfectly, perfectly calm. the charcoal clouds are at your mercy, so you smile. a cold rush of wind spins you around up there in the sky and you laugh. to your further amusement the laughter sounds like thunder. you're far away from your house. you've never felt more at home. you begin to dance. you don't know how to describe it but the lightening dances with you, around you, within you. it strikes right through your core and you wake up with a jolt but it's not a bad jolt. your tea is tipping, almost spilling, and cold. you gaze out the window and wish on the stars that you see in the gaps in the storm clouds that it wasn't a dream. you close your eyes tight, but nothing happens. you watch for a while but there is still no lightening, so you drift into a dreamless sleep. the hair on your head stands straight up.
YOU ARE READING
short stories by snowman
Proză scurtăit feels so familiar, like someone you loved and whose face you have forgotten. somewhere in your body, somewhere that doesn't exist starts to ache. it aches for the singing of the stars. you just want to go home, don't you? if only you knew where t...
