Chills run up my spine as the spring air cools. I notice the sky behind me. Thunderclouds clash and lightning strikes at a distance.
      The storm is coming.
There are blurred faces everywhere, in a rush to get to safety. As the storm's fury would take their lives if they were to be trapped. But I do not fear the tempest. I hear it calling to me, as if to lure me into its eminent danger.
      The storm moves closer.
As if to intimidate me, the clouds taunt me with their peril, and the salty rain fills my eyes. The thunder is deafening. The downpour soaks my shoes, running off my coat in the middle of the gale.
       The storm is all around me.
Black thunderheads above me, the lightning strikes. The illumination casts shadows in the sky, a perfect silhouette.
       The storm is beautiful.

The storm moves on, the sun pierces the clouds, and a silver lining of discomfort and insecurity enter the void in my soul.
      The storm is my comfort.