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The swirling clouds. The dark, gloomy quality of the light that manages to pass through. The stillness, the muffled sounds of life, as if a thick duvet had been laid over the world.
There is an unjustified calmness, because nothing has changed—people are out, traffic is deafening still, and life goes on. But the moment the clouds roll in, the sun is blocked out and the air cools down, everything becomes quieter. Before a drop of rain falls, or a bolt of lighting streaks.
I crave this frozen quality of time, right before the storm. The anticipation, like time itself is holding its breath.
The sun is a giver of life, a censer of warmth and a cruel star. It shines light on everything and anything, keeping an objective view of the world—harsh, clear, and unyielding. It casts its shadows carelessly, and the separation between light and dark is lacerating.
The clouds are the gentle hands that soften the sun's light. The soft hug that wraps life with forgiveness. They're the grey between the sun's black and white, the blurred line between good and bad—they're human, and they make things humane. The sun is the instructor giving out lashings, and the clouds are the lover that one melts into, forgetting they ever existed.
My dream today was of the clouds, the quiet and the cold. The darkening sky and the fading light. The huddled figures of faceless people hurrying to take shelter, and me, embracing the upcoming storm, making my way between the crowds, yearning for the first drop of rain to fall, shivering against the chill of a wind that is yet to pick up. I was alive. I was free. I was at peace.
The yellow sun and the clear blue sky—which I see from my window right now—make me feel like I'm in a Petri dish, being examined under a microscope. The night fills me with sorrow I do not understand, as if I've lost something I never had. I am only truly comfortable under a sky of looming clouds, bathed in the soft glow of a broken sun, and wrapped by the biting cold.
I miss winter.