When I was little, one of the many things I waited earnestly for, were storms. They usually hit our city at night, and I used to gobble my food as fast as I could, so as to not miss a second of it.
I remember I was around 7 when I realized I was fascinated with sharp claps of thunder and dark, grey ominous clouds thrusting the wind down upon us. The ferocious, swift gushes of wind. But that wasn’t the best part.
The best part was standing right in the middle of the soft howling and feeling the air pierce itself while blowing against my skin. Realising, that at this instant, I’m in the wind’s way of wherever it is heading.
Staring at the revolting clouds stretched far across the sky, shielding the stars and blanketing the night into a thick, impassable darkness. And the sky is breaking apart while a low, yet consistent boom of clouds can be heard, like an old God is furious and is expressing his disapproval of the human kind. It evoked in me, a certain maudlin sense of satisfaction.
So when today the first storm of the season hit our city, I found myself following the same pattern. Gorging the dinner as fast as I can and then rushing outside, right in the centre of the stage.
I always make sure I walk against the wind; in whatever direction it is blowing, I’m always walking against it. It gives me the feeling like I’m challenging the storm, in a puny way of course.
And no, never once in my life have I been afraid. It always felt like home. As a child I remember, I used to envisage that some day the storm will take me away with it. Somewhere far, in some new, Utopian realm. And I would say goodbye to this godforsaken place.
So my usual walk at night today was wild, like I covet. I stood alone on a stretch of road, with not a single living soul in sight. No lamps, no torch, just the fitful electric streaks of thunder, making the gaps among the giant menacing clouds visible, if only for a split second.
I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and whispered within, ‘beautiful.’