Own Tempests

The mind, restless as the sea, forever surging, forever receding—has it ever known stillness? To be poised, to be braced, to be taut as a wire stretched between two unknowns, that has been my way. I have lived, if it can be called living, in a state of readiness, always, always anticipating the next storm, the next blow, the next tide that will sweep me away. And now—now that there is no storm, no urgent need to flee, no wolves at the door—I find that I summon them, that I must.

I have held on, as if by instinct, to everything, to anything—eight arms grasping, grasping, never letting go. The weight of it all! Yet without it, I am weightless, drifting, unmoored. And so, I construct my own tempests, arrange my own battles, cast shadows where there is only light. For what is existence if not a struggle? What is peace but an unbearable hush, the silence before the scream?