When I am angry, violence floods the veins like liquid wildfire. All the things I love about myself are drowned. The torrents are free spirits, unstoppable. They have to go somewhere; they demand home in the destruction of others. I become a terror in search of where I belong. I become what drove me to this point.
When I am sad, hurt is stretched into eternity. Each second is molded into a thousand needles, piercing into my soul. Storms roar and roar with the language only I hear and know. They always tempt me to exchange my destruction for a sweet time-out. As if they sense my refusal stitched onto my lips, the storms will always take a piece of me without permission. Perhaps as an offering, or as a warning that next time they might swallow me whole. Down to its wide, vigilant eye that would follow me to every ending of the Earth.
When I am happy, my mind blooms into the garden of neverending Spring. The Sun doesn’t burn. With tender hands, it strokes buds out of slumber. Rain pours down so softly, placing chaste kisses all over my skin. It doesn’t bleed from pain like tears. There is no grey sky. No shadows hung near the corner of my eyes nor the innermost of my self. No wind condensed into zephyr madness. The storms are asleep. Nothing is destroyed. No one is scathed. I can taste my own aliveness. Fleeting and untamed — just like the clouds. The moment lasts as long as frost caught in summertime, but, God, how it feels like forever captured in a blink of an eye.