I love thunderstorms

I love thunderstorms.
They appear and with lightning strike the Earth with such a grace that blends perfectly with a beautiful trance.
Like tears, the rain falls. Is the Earth sad, or just the people on it? And does the lightning erratically strike in a dance; rhythmic with the spiral of chaos?
The storm lessens a smidgen, although I'm sure it's only catching its breath for another wet, thunderous wave. I start to think about the lives of humans. Numerous, like the drops of rain that amazingly form in the clouds like a fetus in the womb, and afterwards race to the ground, then splatter the Earth, leaving a noticeable residual that's similar to the abrupt conclusion to our lives.
A tear sheds from my left eye, but I leave it. I dare not wipe it away, for it should be remembered.
Rolls of clouds shape and reshape in the distance, like the transfer of energy that they blindly are.
I fear God only through the hands of the Earth. It has no face, and therefor no one to compromise with.
No matter, though. I still love thunderstorms.

Did I miss the finish line?

Did I miss the finish line? Can I rest yet?
If so, I haven’t the feet to slow down. I’m sure of it.
And what if I said yes, would the percussions remain the same? What if I was suppose to say no?
Bah, there’s no way of telling. Not yet…

The Chicken or the Egg?

If for one fragile moment it was all perishable.

If there truly was an understanding; a glimpse into what's to be and undeniably 'Okay'. Would it be recognizable from the normality, or would it entangle itself ever so delicately into the circus act as to not discredit its own existence?

Slivers of life and impartial moments clutter my mind, leaving breathless suggestions as my only stranglehold with reality. Trying to think into the past provides the same results as looking into the future, like two separate mirrors that will never produce dissimilar reflections. And I'm sure the mirrors never get cleaned…not even on the holidays. Hell, especially not on the holidays.

Like the letter that led to an emotion, which led to a word that inspired an action, which left others with sentences of unsustainable discretion that exemplifies the same fire and heart that heroic kings are spoken to possess. Aye, that is possibly of what I speak.

I believe the egg most certainly did come before the chicken. I've grown weary of debating grand quandaries and having to settle with notable uncertainties upon the matters. And further, I've grown to crave the complete acceptance of any circumstance/figure, for the taint of skepticism smothers my perseverance.

If someone wants to disagree upon whether the chicken or egg came first, fuck 'em… this ones mine and I'm riding it to grave.

It might not be much, but trust my stakes: after you've taken a shot or 12 of reality reconstruction, certainties are far and very few between.

Is it too late to go back? To dig back out of the rabbit hole? I suppose it would be easier if I remembered when I actually lept in.

There's always something...

Never been a huge fan of eggs.

I like chicken though.

With honey mustard... myes...