There’s a darkness looming beyond the horizon. As far as I can see, each way I turn my head, there is a dark line encircling the living world I know. If only I could propel myself up through the opening in the sky, above the clouds into the world beyond, o’er the earth where I could escape being trapped inside. But it’s impossible and such hopes are silly. The sun will soon be blocked out – the days will seem as night. But it all appears so natural – like a lifetime event that always loomed. Simple – like the routine of tides, like the inevitability of a hurricane in September.
The wind has lashed for weeks now. Trees have fallen – trees I’d grown to love. There is debris everywhere and nothing looks the same. It’s a mess out here and there is little more I can do then retreat to my hovel and try to endure the storm. Its power is confounding. I’m not sure I can outlast it, I’m not sure my hovel can out-stand it. But taking shelter is all I can do to maintain any memory of the calm that once was – to maintain any peace and serenity in the present. Inside the air is still, but the racket of what stirs outside is menacingly tumultuous. Gusts seep through the cracks, whistling under the breath of the wind. But as I sit here listening and watching the storm move in I know nothing will ever be the same and much of what I knew will have to be rebuilt. Much, however, can never be rebuilt. But I know I will have to find new places for solace. I know I will have to deal with what the storm has left behind – clean it up – accept it as the way nature intended. And should my hovel survive, I am certain from the seething I see it go through now, it will need to be reinforced in order to be livable once again.
I imagine the sun will come out again. The left-over trees seem to think so for they continue to try to reach for the sky even though the gusts are trying to snap them to the ground. The whipping wind keeps shuffling the clouds through with no regard for the necessity of sun – though at odd times there is a speckle of blue between the layers of grey. I wonder if colour will return. I wonder if flowers will bloom again – if I will smell their fragrant esters upon the wind and revel as the warmth of the sun kisses my weathered cheeks. I hope that it can’t always be so grey and desolate. I remember a time before this storm. I remember light. I recall colour. I could be outside and rarely have need of shelter. I miss the sun, but I know this storm isn’t over. I can only try and outlast this storm. But I see the clouds on the horizon coming and I know – the worst is yet to come.