A thunderstorm is violent fury. Slowly building up. Pushing on your chest. It`s not fast, but it gathers. It grows and grows as electrons fly way up into the atmosphere. You can see the sky grow dark. Coloring the sight with grey. You can sense it coming. You can smell it. It makes your breath heavy. It wants you to know it`s coming. And suspense is all the wind is carrying. And when the first lightning strikes your sight, when the first thunder screeches in the distance, you know you need to take cover. A thunderstorm is rage. Boiling. Knocking over. Hasty, powerful and lonely. There`s no one dancing in the storm. They are all hiding and biding their time. Out of sight, but not out of mind. Because every drop, every howl of the wind being pushed against the world, every electric bolt the lights up the sky, every torrent that floods the street, every damn thing sends a chilling tickle on your back. With every lonesome action the storm feels closer. A thunderstorm is rage, power and loneliness.
I`m a thunderstorm.
You are treacherous, indeed. Striking while no one expects you to. You don`t need to stomp, to blow or screech. You don`t need the world to fear you. If anything, you want to seduce them. To go out and lose themselves under your dominating, yet benign presence. You don`t want to drown the world in the water of your fury. You want to spread regret. To teach a lesson. To show that while you might shine, you can also burn. You want them to beg for the water of your mercy. And so, you make`em see what isn`t there. Dream like they never did. And slowly turn to dread. So they can feel the pressure of their own existence. Feel your fire. On their skin, in their head, slowly stopping their hearts, evaporating what`s in their veins. You don`t need the world to fear you. But the possibility of you. Because you will be there and be dreamy, but on a whim, you can become a nightmare.
You are by all means a heatwave.
You sing. I roar. You dance. I invade. We strive on wailings and die to patience. We deliver.
Pain, sorrow, fear, and warnings for the children.
But in the end, you come, I`m passive. I follow, you flee. And there`s no ”we”.
Yet no summer would be a summer without a lonely thunderstorm and a treacherous heatwave.