I let out a satisfied sigh as I exhale the Marlboro and watch the fumes make love to the stormy night.
Thunderstorms, light drizzles, clouds soaking up all the miseries of the world…it makes me remember, it makes me forget.
Stormy nights have always been my companion. These nights are mysterious, delirious, wise, and above all, great company. To them, I am a mere soul who relishes the touch of the first drops of the rain, the wet grass and muddy puddles as my bare foot splashes across them in search for myself.
The stormy nights are always there to listen to me, to acknowledge my voice through an encouraging peal of thunder. They rumble and boom as they listen to my apprehensions about my own iniquitous behavior, and you know there have been many.
These nights never judge me, oh no. Instead, they pacify me and embrace me by drowning my sorrows in their dark downpour. What is more, this is an embrace I welcome. I cry away my grief as the water glides past my face, taking the tears with it, leaving me anew, filling me with a surprising sense of tranquility.
These nights come and go as they please; no one controls them. They scare, they ruin, they destroy, and yet they lend a compassionate ear towards those in need, they notice those of us whom others have considered too savage to pay any heed to. Indeed, the stormy nights work its magic in the most mysterious ways.
As they come to visit me time and again, these nights always remind me of the blasphemous things we have whispered into each other ears: half in humor, half in spite. We chuckle at all that is around us because this is the only way to fight the pain. And during such episodes, I am reminded that I too am mysterious, delirious, perhaps wise and a great companion.
The storm paints a painfully beautiful picture of him for me sometimes. I think of him and then I remember: I remember how much in love we were, and how wonderful everything seemed. I remember telling him he was the epitome of my desires and him, me. Alas all this was only a part of my delirious mind buttressed by false hopes and imaginations. None of it was real- he never loved me.
As I recall all these emotions, I forget all too easily how much I hated him when he ripped my heart out only making me remember that I love him and he perhaps loves me back.
The stormy nights thus come by to gently remind me and to make me forget all at the same time; in all their glory to console, comfort, cheer my otherwise depraved body.
You see, the stormy night is the only thing I can count on to be there for me. It is the only thing that will lie down next to me and listen to me, with a blanket of clouds above us, rumbling away at all my insanity-stricken, rotten and dry sense of humor, all the while encouraging me to be at one with cool breeze that every so often decides to get intimate with my Marlboro fumes, enraptured in each other till both entities become one and vanish into a better existence…
AN is in a soul-searching endeavor. Help her in this journey of hers, write to her at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Feature image is ‘Storm clouds’ by Tony Hisgett