Thunderhead

The temperature drops; grey fog, black cloud and the wind.

A storm is approaching.

It is time to batten down the hatches. It is time to make for safe harbour. It is time for haste and action.

At first I am running but losing. Then I am running but not moving. And now my body will not move; my will is gone.

This is no natural storm.

Uncountable they are. Foul and loathsome; terrible yet ridiculous. They pass across the sky. They make day night and all beauty grey. Life is death, love is hate and magic science.

I cannot struggle.

I cannot move.

I am losing my life. I am alive but dead. I am older.

Numb.

“Are you okay?”

“It’s the darkness again” I manage to say.

Silence.

“Here, drink this.”

I take and drink.

Slowly my eyes open and I see, well, I see something outside of me. I see a face, a worried face, and I feel a hand on my hand. Then there is a gap, a break in the clouds, and a small patch of light shining through.

There is hope.