The Tempest

Higher ground. We seek to understand the ins and outs of life. Time passing ever so fast that moments last less than the blink of an eye. Moments scream their misfortunes and disenchantment in the midst of blinding snow, so thick and irreverent, that all is lost in the translation.

There are days certainly where one tends to wounds and headaches born from less than desirable situations. Days spent listening to rain drops and soothing thunder. Days where dizziness lingers and one does what one can to compartmentalize and breathe.

It comes and goes in waves, this feeling of not belonging. It buries itself in the aftermath of our desperation, at times both hell and salvation.

Nonetheless, we travel onward, to the lesser of our evils. It is the cold reality we face. It is the undercurrent, keeping us afloat and simultaneously drowning us, keeping us pinned against the rocks. The sharpness of these, striking us in places kept guarded and thought impenetrable.

Still, we breathe. We give light to the canvas and make our mark like paint drops from an obscure painter. His brush heavy at times with the weight of our inconsistencies and unspoken truths. The painting becomes enigmatic, spectral in nature. It casts its shadow during those times of the day where we fail to remember.

These are the thoughts of wayward souls, drifting suddenly into the midst of blinding snow. Constantly seeking to understand our place in the world, be it barren, be it alone. We thrive by instinct and a keen sense of the wondrous and innately beautiful, seeking the light in the darkest corners of the tempest.