stormy surrealism

A thunderstorm rolled over me at 2:30 in the morning.

True, it rolled over the entire area, but I am usually the only one I know who is awakened by the thunder, the flashes, the energy, the rain, the gloriously wet smell that fills and freshens the air.

I find thunderstorms, especially those that surprise me in the middle of the night, to be extremely exciting and invigorating. The energy is undeniable; I feel connected to so much around me with senses heightened during such storms.

Last night I allowed myself to remain in a semi-dream state during the storm. I felt a deep longing pulling at my soul, an almost primal need for connection that has not been fulfilled in so long. I have never made love during any storm, which surprises me because, although I feel so alive I never could awaken my partner or the opportunity was simply unavailable to me for whatever reason. My passionate soul has found great disappointment, sadness and loneliness in a marriage lacking in desire to share any form of spontaneous, stormy pleasure; indeed, "give-give-give" does breed resentment among the giver when there is no reciprocity involved nor any desire demonstrated in learning how to reciprocate.

As my muscles reacted in the anticipation of each thunder clap that would follow each brilliant flash I tried to remain floating above the pleasant sensations, the draw back to Earth attempting to awaken me further but I resisted the gravitational seduction...

...and then came the rain.

In squalls, the sky would open for about thirty seconds, then cease suddenly to a trickle with a very zen-esque quality to the drip-drops from the leaves of the dogwood outside my bedroom window to the wet mulch below. This cycle repeated about three times until the rain continued steady, lulling me back into my dreams. I could taste the water in the air, I could smell the delicious humidity and, in closing my eyes, I could sense the water bringing calm to all fires caused by the lightning.

Is this my oft-joked druid side? Or is this me being Woman?

Gravity then won its seduction when the pitter-patter of almost-four year-old feet came from his room into mine, and a little cuddle ball climbed up to put his cold feet against his mother's warm thighs.

Back to my sweet reality.