Blue, luminescent fire struck the sky, giving the heavens a mighty shake. The world flickered as the miracle of light struck the dark world, and as the damnation of the storm struck the world with violence and destruction.

Transparent silver pellets shot through the sky in a furious -“flurrious”- attempt to break free from the dark gray-green life form in the skies above. It was as if they were fleeing the predator, and they the prey. For as soon as the sun came shining the water cycle would begin. Thus, they would be vapor and would have to face falling from the monstrous clouds once more.

You know, it would be weird to say the transparent, silver pellets were crying as they fled the predator. But I’ll be honest and come right out and say it. It was as if they were crying! It was as if the very semblance of the liquid falling was of melancholy. Maybe that’s why people feel sad during dark and stormy times.

The ones affected were perhaps the ones who were affected by the emotions of nature. During storms, the melancholy that occurs in the droplets must somehow be swept across the world. Or perhaps that’s just a bunch of mumbo-jumbo. One can never truly know.

It was times like this that I would wish for immunity to the dangers in the world. If lighting would not hurt me severely or kill me I would love to be struck by it. I dreamed of my senses being heightened and of my vision becoming clear. I dreamed of my body tingling with unburned, burnt energy – and I would smile as hallucinations hit me. I would laugh gaily as I would see within my mind the bolts of bright-blue, liquid fire intertwined with my vocal chards – and I would sing the song of the storm.

The rain sings sadly,

Winds play as backup vocals,

Screaming of hatred,

And pain as drums play madly.

The light show roaring,

Of temper and violence,

Blinded from hatred,

In the skies, it is soaring.

The music of rain,

Is roaring across the realm,

No drop does falters,

A dance truly gone insane.

The light show multi-tasking,

Glowing across the skies,

Blinking insanely,

The bolts unmasking.

Some people say it’s rather odd that I like storms. To be honest once more, I must admit that I am afraid of storms, especially if they get bad. But past all my fears I am in awe of the power to withhold and herald. Past my fear, I always manage to listen bravely as the storm tells its story.

Each visit usually brings more words, and each visit is beautiful and unique in its own way. You just have to read beneath the surface and dig down real deep.

You can’t be promised to be visited by the same clouds. You’ll never see a cloud in an exact certain shape again, for each shape if only for the eyes who take the time to look. Each shape you see is not always the same shape someone else sees. So don’t ever label the clouds. They may look like the same form on the outside, but on the inside they are something more; something so much more.

Don’t let the imitators fool you. Whether you think it or not, we’re all unique in our own ways.

You are unique.

I am unique.