August 30, 2020•341 words
Late August through early September is storm season here in Central Europe. We don't get tornadoes, cyclones or hurricanes. Just regular thunderstorms. Still, they can and often do get very powerful. Low-lying regions get flooded, various blackouts occur. Some houses loose their roofs.
For the past three years or so, I've spent a lot of time observing the storms. How they form, when they come, how they hit. I'm no meteorologist, of course; I'm an artist all the way. My interpretation is metaphorical, to say the least.
It's calm before The Storm. It's warm. Air humidity skyrockets. The bees stop their work in the fields. A suspense, some would say. It's an unpleasant moment, for sure. Hot, humid, zero wind; who would enjoy that. It's a moment of not-very-dramatic buildup. A peculiar prelude to a grand resolve.
When the storm comes, I am almost relieved. I do not know what's coming; how hard it will hit. Maybe the lights will be out this time. Or the internet. Or, maybe, I'll just get to enjoy the view of lightnings some sixty kilometers away. I am thankful that this powerful force has finally come; with all of its majestic beauty and terrifying roar.
It all starts with single drops of rain. In a matter of minutes this relentless marching band speeds up from a slow waltz to a blasting EDM set. Supplemented by a jarring light show and terribly good bass that passes through every molecule of our fleeting world.
For me, The Storm is a wave of change. Sure, it destroys things along the way, wipes out the weakest, one could say. But, at the same time, it gives the world a fresh view; a new chapter.
It so freaking nice after a storm. All the nasty humidity is gone; freshness emanates through every damn thing. There's no more danger, all that was to be destroyed has already been destroyed.
I shall await The Storm. Patiently. Diligently.
And the next one. And the one after that.
Until I get wiped out.