Storm
The type that happens in your head
I exist in a void, while shadows pace the periphery, turning whispered thoughts into echoes of thunder; quiet moments are stretched until they hum, a constant babble of muted noise; outside, the world keeps turningβ traffic lines the streets, voices rise and fade like distant tides, but inside, I am a storm; I wait in the dark, counting each broken breath, waiting for the weather to pass.
I havenβt written about mental health in a short while. Anxiety is something that will probably dog me for a lifetime. Iβm learning to recognise the signs, and to talk myself down, but sometimes, those intrusive thoughts are too loud to ignore.
If youβre a sufferer, I feel you. Remember - itβs just your mind, and your mind doesnβt always tell the truth.
Jo xo
I'm no stranger to the storm or the waiting, or the fact that the mind isn't always telling the truth. Thank you for the gentle reminder.
And what if the weather breaks,
the rain falling like the tears of a god,
lost in the haze of the lashing sheet,
turning the air to milk.
.
For the shedding of this,
clears the air, turning the sky
turquoise once more,
dark clouds white as snow.
What then, as rivers burble
as they flow toward the sea,
to where they had once come
beneath the hot sun.
Is that worth the world,
and the sounds of traffic,
and the clutching of books,
your thumb in the fold?