I’m writing in the midst of a storm.

Well, more like an avalanche of paroxysms all together, and a tiny human can only take so much.

They say you have to wait out the storm and pray it does not wash the life out of you, before you attempt to write about it – on whether it was mostly rain or mostly wind or mostly lightning and thunder, because you never know what a storm can do to you.

The metaphor is perfect that it is awfully back breaking. But I cannot wait for the storm to pass to write about the torrential rain, for I might be left for dead – dead inside it can’t be helped anymore.

I’ve realized that you can never be prepared for anything, no matter how much of your glorious life earned wisdom you trust may guide you.

Some things just wash you away in a formidable current you can never go against, and you let the flash floods carry you wherever. And you can only hold, helplessly, on to that makeshift floater and let the universe stir the life in and out of you.

However, it is exhaustingly riveting too, that you, nevertheless, want to swim against the current, because you know the flood is off to the sea and the sea is not a place for you.

Ultimately, you are tired and spent and yearning because you only have a few pairs of useful body parts, a troubled mind, a restless soul, and a patronus-fueled heart that eventually gets tired and skips beats too.

It’s disconcerting when your humanity confronts you in a storm. 

And it will dawn on you, that there is no peace in being vulnerable. So you eternally wonder that if humanity is vulnerable, will there ever be any chance for peace?

In my head the metaphors never end. They’ll just go on swirling, colliding with each other, forming storms of their own.

And more often than not, you can only be grateful for the little rays of sunshine that get to break the storm clouds all over you, all while waiting for the storm to wane.

I’m still waiting for this one to pass.