It’s hard to paint a picture.
I’m at the eye of the storm, but I’m just tired of trying to hold my ground. I don’t know what the storm will rip away.
Around me, my thoughts slip away sometimes and tornado around me. I know my feelings are in that whirlpool too, but it all moves too fast for me to grasp at.
There’s a white noise. A little stillness inside. Sometimes, voices from the outside make it through but they don’t stay very long. How could they? They have a tornado around them too.
Some of the other storms are smaller and lighter than mine. Some have a storm denser than any I have ever seen. Sometimes our storms entangle. Sometimes the winds blow in the opposite direction. Sometimes, the clouds lift for a little while and I can see clearly. Then they come crashing.
Storms aren’t supposed to stay, are they? Eventually, they must subside. I wonder if mine will. I wonder if it’ll feel loud or lonely when it’s over. I wonder what would be the extent of the destruction wrecked.
Will I breathe panic or sigh relief?
Will I know whether to be still or move?
Fight or flight?
Stay or hide?
Will another storm replace this one?
Will there be enough of me left behind to start again?
Will I even be me?
I wonder what I should name my storm.
In frame: @artisinner