I sat on the hill for a while.
Listening to the wind in the leaves of the trees, thinking about how conversations could've gone. All the other ways the wind could've blown, but didn't. I feel the cycles:
I have been that storm when arguments formed from colliding opposing fronts: what started as something thought, brewing into something discussed, erupting into something I would've swore it must. I have promised, I have not followed through, I have apologized, antagonized, I have cussed and cried and dwelt on times someone I trusted lied. I could've been more direct. I could've been less so. I have ripped things up by their roots like a blindsiding tornado; Torn the ground out from underneath cliff-sides like landslides... Without the Novocaine of channeling, I have been a torrent from all sides: a hurricane.
I have to breathe and believe the eye of that storm is the center of me and only in the calm is there relief. Reprieve from myself. I look around and see the destruction my manic movements have caused. I see how my coldness was biting. I see how I challenged you to keep fighting and then cease without cause; how I have crushed you with crashing waves of insecurities. I have stoked fires and leveled us to dust. In the calm, I recognize the disaster of feelings is not spared, only paused. Like the weather, emotions are mother nature - seasonal and changing, always rearranging the terrain...
And yet I seek stability. Forgive-ability. From you. From me. From and for the world we live in. I let the stillness sink in.
I sat there on that hill, self-observing-itself, like maybe the clouds don't do - though I don't know that to be true like the sky might. We are evolved and evolving, adapting every day and night. We have rain boots to wade the floods and the muds and umbrellas to redirect downpours and I wore a coat to brave the cold to sit there. I'm told we can't perfectly predict the weather but with the task of preparedness, we can weather the storm. We can choose to be warm.
When I leave the vantage point from this hill in the eye of my storm and seek shelter from the coming tempest, I will assess this premise: I suspect, with the mountainous task of retrospect, introspect, and an examination of what and why I even "expect", maybe I, too, can weather the breeze-stillness-gust cycles of my imperfect, predictable self. I must.