I found an old journal entry that I’m reminded of every year as summer looms and it goes as follows:
I’m still working through the whirlwind of emotions this week has brought. My tears bring me too much comfort and I refuse to speak my anxieties into existence today, so they will not be written.
But with all Augusts, thunderstorms, sudden and full, pull down into my bones, igniting a visceral reaction under my skin. And it carries, the deep thunder ripping the sky asunder, hollowing out the horizon in shades of gray and it is comforting the fleeting feeling of fantasy blown out and down with the rain. The thunder lifts me up and up until the rain, like wet drips on cement, brings me back down; over and over again, until I feel bled out into the world, overstimulated and buzzing with some sort of forgiveness.
I think freedom is the rain and thunder, lightning shattering the sky, as I stand, clothes sticking to my skin, outside.