Well, well, well.
If it isn’t my old friend the thunderstorm. The friend who is exciting to be around but makes you doubt your decision to venture outside, for fear of being struck in the back of the head by fifty-bazillion electrons. He remains my only friend with that ability, I stopped speaking to the others quite some time ago.
He isn’t the only friend, however, who rattles my door in the night, or in the day; but he is the only one who does so without without asking to be taken to the hospital because of a drug overdose, or because they cut off a finger while playing with a box-cutter, or because they’ve just been struck in the head by 50 bazillion electrons. He doesn’t even ask for milk.
The thunderstorm and I have an understanding. I sit here working, he plays off in the distance, just far enough so that his booming claps cannot penetrate my headphones, but close enough to illuminate the darkness, like some reverse pyrotechnics that tickle the ground from above, just for me.
They say he never tickles the same place twice, but I know him, he is a creature of habit, who returns time and time again almost always for the same reason as before, like when you return to your favourite park or city or dream.
It’s been a while old friend.