...

There was a bad storm here last night. Perhaps it was apropos to experience a storm, with the turmoil I've been feeling lately. It is funny how we associate weather patterns to emotions. On the afternoon my husband was let go, it rained heavily. I remember the annoyance at the reason it happened. I remember resenting the rain. Rain usually brings me comfort, but that day the petrichor smelled more like hubris than coziness. But... I also remember times of my life, grieving under an island sun. Hating the beautiful, warm January rays with every fiber of my being as I slipped rosary beads under my fingertips. My soul seeking someone who was never to return.

Last night's storm was pretty rough, but not devasting. It woke me up at midnight, intense winds and lightning. It startled me, but somehow... somehow I felt understood. That sometimes, like me, the Earth unleashes a rage as if to cleanse or make up for some other mysterious process of nature. Cliché thoughts, for the cliché thing that is living one's life. Cycles, weather patterns, seasons, the wheel of fortune. Doors closing and opportunities knocking. Are they empty sentiments? Or the safety blankets that help us get through it all?

It is morning now and everything is a bit quiet and gloomy. We are safe, the only casualties being my mother in law's greenhouse, and an erstwhile branch. The intensity of a storm always leaves an otherworldly vibe, doesn't it? As if I could walk out my door right now and be the only person in the world left.

He was afraid, one way or another, of the voice that beats in your lungs, your hurricane scream. You frightened him. How men fear things that can't be quieted.
– Cassandra Khaw (The Salt Grows Heavy)