Santayana

Years went without Warning but all the while it was still barreling down on me. The dangers we encounter so frequently come with sounds as heavy and alarming as the threat itself, but even the alarm we feel from a close encounter or the reflection on how bad it could have been don’t leave enough of an impression. The damage is a brush that can repaint everything you have every believed in and trusted about your life before it strokes across you image. This plight is a freak storm powered by dark clouds that filled the sunny sky with ink blots in seconds. Ripped from the ground are trees decades in the making lobbed in to the torrential rains whipping through violent winds that batter. Like flimsy tissue paper wrapped gently around a gift are the walls of homes, cherished and warm, now nothing more than damaged materials riding the wind.

    I am cowering here in the door frame of a basement, with anxiety pounding against my ribcage in a desperate panic to escape. Above my head the raging storm reaps its course through my town like an eighteen-wheeler through a house of cards. Every thought a recommitment to rebuilding stronger and better than before. We will be prepared for the next storm! The damage will soften and be repelled more effectively than anyone could ever anticipate! Except for one thought…….a small one. A thought that sits across from me at a desk like a counsellor ready to correct my course. It watches me from across the strong mahogany with patience as I sob and wretch my hands in worry. It suggests a new town? A place where the storms are less frequent and the air all-season; where energy can be focused on building permanent fixtures not doomed from conception. It’s a thought I’ve long abandoned but am not wholly unfamiliar with. Maybe, the thought suggests…. Just maybe there is a place more suitable for you

   I think about that thought as the recovery effort is prepared. I think about it like a dog thinks about chasing a car. I think it and think it until it is a thought to stay thought. Still, I wonder, what ideas like it may be thought the next time the rain falls and the wind starts to blow.

EB

You never want to see a heaven in the sky until you’re drowning in tears. Even then, it isn’t until I look in another’s and see the fragments of her heart through the ocean in her eyes that my thoughts drift towards a hopeless hope. It is most likely fleeting, but I can’t help but wish that pain could be a currency to purchase something great. The senselessness and depth in which it penetrates are equal yet uneven, and yet there’s nothing to be done: it’s chaos in the most impartial and truest sense.

The End of The End; The Beginning of the Beginning.

The wind cuts deep, thin shards unblocked by failing layers of clothing and stubborn will, but there is nothing complex or malicious about the pain. It is refreshing to reflect on, in fact. Winter blankets and reconfigures time on the calendar in to such a twisting tale of beauty and joy intermixed with suffering, discontentment, and depression, and though it’s a good read it’s not the kind of story you ever feel unfinished with by the end.  The end has arrived though with resounding excitement and relief to the calloused skin, which so patiently stood against the worst of the season. The days have widened and accepted richer sunlight; the air carries moisture and water runs through the streets. These past several days and the weeks to come will see us exhale the long gulp of air we held in our lungs. Life will live around us and share our space once again.

 

     The season of the beautiful chill has ended, and that of rebirth through water and light has begun.