It is 3 a.m. in the morning, and a storm is raging outside the apartment. Staying on the second highest floor in the building means that while I have a lovely vantage point overlooking the suburban neighbourhood I live in, it also means that every sound of the storm is amplified. Moments before the heavens decided to open the floodgates, I heard the whistling of the strong winds right outside my windows, threatening to unhinge the locked windows and the balcony doors.
Lightning dances across the sky, illuminating my dark bedroom. The downpour is punctuated by the deep rumbles of thunder now and then. I love storms and their ferocity and mystery that fills you with awe as you sit gazing through the rain-soaked windows.
The rain becomes both a lullaby and a comfort. Even in the midst of a storm that wreaks havoc and chaos, the rain washes away everything, sweeps clean the mess of the past.
It's like crying; you heave and sob, unable to stop at first. You become a mess, unable to hold back anymore. Yet the tears streaming down your face is strangely therapeutic even though on the inside you are hating yourself for being this weak. And then the sobs subside, the tears trickle to a stop.
You feel better, but the mess remains, and you still have to sort through the chaotic turmoil of your soul.
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