A Thunderstorm

A storm is brewing outside. The thunder, a show of lights, covers our archipelago. There is electricity in the air, you can feel it, and smell it. Something is about to happen tonight, and you know it. There is a haunting silence in the streets, and no one dares to talk about the spectacle of flashing racers up ahead. You are very naive and passive, might as well continue with your routine. Anyway, it was a long day at work, didn't have much time to rest and have a break. You'd rather go back home, with no care in the world, and sit on the sofa, have a hot drink and turn on the TV set.

Well, it is at this moment you realize it's beginning. Your TV set explodes as your turn it on. A lightning strike has finally decided to emerge from the clouds, and it has hit your home. The silent dancing of the brightly vivid skies breaks down into a chorus of fierce rains. The air ripples with the sound of lightning. The wrath of a thousand storms is unleashed, and you sit there, on the sofa, looking rather astonished at the sparks coming out of the hole in the middle of your TV set.

You jump up and run across the corridor. There is no light showing you the way, the power supply to your home has been cut off, burnt, by a single lightning bolt. That is the force with which a thousand other bolts hit the island that day. It is the force with which nature makes us cower. Revere it, even, so that we feel vulnerable when our technology is dwarfed by the power of the Earth. You find a way to the kitchen, and manage to grab a torch. You turn it on, and point it at the window, ominously standing in front of you, the only barrier between your shivering body, inside, and the crackling storm drenching into your backyard.

Another flash of light expands through the blackness of the room into a hundred hues of white. The echo of its rage follows, and it shudders you. Your knees fail, and you stumble. Slowly, the room turns black again, and you slip into unconsciousness.

Light pours into your eyes, burning them slightly, as you exert force to open them. You manage to crawl up onto your feet, and look around. Your room is well lit again. It is morning, and the storm has passed. Across the corridor you walk, and out through the door. A breeze of fresh air blows into you, scented with the calmness that pervades your surroundings.

It is the calamity of the storm, now a  composure of nature. A subtle quietness and a silence, ensuing the symphony of Life.