Story By Image

Yesterday I asked my boyfriend to pick out a picture out from my search on safari ‘Photo prompt for writing’. The Image shown above was the one he chose so here is what I wrote. I did no drafts or planning I just wrote the first thing that came in mind.

Comfort In The Storm

It is my time. The fog comforts me, hugging me like it knew. I hold myself as the famous Henry Purcell – Dido’s Lament plays in my head. The song takes control as I roll my head to each beat, my neck and shoulders support me.

The air is damp, cold. Today the clouds sit upon the earth, as if they decided that the heavens were down here instead. The trees are veiled in the lightest of mist, their trunks sombre brown with sable cracks that gnarl the bark. As my eye travels to the edge of the woodland the trees become silhouettes against a blanket of white, as if it is only daylight where I stand, as if I am encircled by twilight.

If I lived any place other than right here, I would pine for these evergreen hills, this forest that has become a vital part of my soul. The pine forest has a time-machine aroma, everyday of the year, it is the very ether of my memories. The pine forest is a home to so many souls of creation and I feel so blessed to hear my heart beat among theirs.

I never let myself see my own fear, for it was ever a disadvantage in the place that I was raised. To cry was to be beaten and scoled. If I cried I’d be “given something to cry about.” The act of crying for my own pain was literally beaten out of me. Suppressed completely. Now decades later, it still is, yet channelled into my creativity, a sort of unwitting energy booster. What I cannot suppress though are these shivers that say I am afraid.

In that shiver was a moment of truth, a story of these emotions that no mask could ever hide.

I’ve always loved the thunder storms. I’ve always loved storm-could-grey. To see them swirling one last time in the heavens, brings a kind of inner glee. I reached up, bringing down a handful of that cosmic swirl, if I could make a fabric from it that was ever-changing as the sky above is right now, I’d wear it forever.

As the infinity cloud swirl levitates from my hand over my head, I feel it. The heavens. The clouds were a kind of grey that would make any quarry rock proud, as if they were so pleased beneath my feet, hidden between the grass they echo the earth. All of the grey, all that swirling, my vision became a blur, but I trusted this storm to take me where I need to go. The condensation was bound to happen sooner rather than later.

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