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Storms


I procrastinate my homework by observing my nail polish. All are painted in a beautiful green purple metallic hue except for two which are red for the coming holiday. As I admire the green-purple shade I see a disturbance of light. A small flicker of a brighter glow which causes me to turn my gaze out the large window and up to the dark gray sky.

"The storm has arrived," I mutter just as thunder roars above my home. The smirk that graced my feature perhaps would look ominous had some one else been there to see. Pure coincidence in the timing of my words with nature, yet I have never felt more in tune with the world. At least in tune with nature, people are not my strong suit. The weather, however, is something I understand.

The rain is like a friend to me. From its soft drizzles to its torrential down pours, I can feel it calling. The rain is always so soft as it touches my skin. I feel as though I can stand under it for hours and even then I would not be able to fully understand its motives.

Comments

  1. The rain always reminds me of home.

    Your reflections (and title) remind me of a fascinating story by Kate Chopin called "The Storm."

    ReplyDelete

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