Storm

One may dress in latex and lustrous matter to conceal the body from the weather and rain, but one can never aptly prepare for the raucous rising from the grates in the soiled streets of London. Incubating in the warm corners of the home is all a Londoner could wish for to appease the current state of affairs. Catapulting a great way into the self within the human encasing, far beyond the softness of the arteries, past the ferocity of the heart; that is all Your Writer could wish for. In the preceding days, that was all she received. It was a swell of merry tidings, this self-inflicted sabbatical. For after only two months of present lodging, London’s talons sunk deep into her bosom and writhed, burgeoning bouts of agitated inertia and dark dense clouds of estrangement. Prior to her arrival, she was infrequently prone to less than mildly merry comportment. It was the city that ruled with a malevolent hand.

In her hermitage she was delighted. Her selves of scholar turned mystic, evolved to priestess, further unto philosophical peripatetic — resolutely, without judgment. It was the only place where the Keys of Paradise doubtless dangled from the seeker’s wrist. It was gold in the veins and Daffy on the lips — this solitary interval away. But alas! The pangs of the modern world grip her even in the thickest waters, assuming an air of identity and human lacquer, as all stupors eventually do. She was due to return books to the library. She must emerge once again into the communal atmosphere.

Inscribed in her journal the morning of the ascent is as follows:

A strange thing happens when you work in the depths with discipline for that long

when you emerge
on a day of a great storm if you’re lucky
— though luck plays no factor in your renderings anymore —

You become the storm

You meet the storm with reverence as you would your Headmistress, about to lead You on an escapade you signed for but know no details of
You hear the storm as the trickle meanwhile your ceremony runs its course

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on the tube.

You see it for what it is

orchestrated limbs

the ecstatic dance of the planet
You love the storm from the belly of your heart
your heart and your belly understand it
and it’s just a storm to the rest of the population on the platform but when the train arrives it cuts this forcefully indifferent exaltation of nature to commercial.