Nights like this, I love. The wild wind and near-warmth on my skin makes it seem the whole world is teasing, creating and building this climax, this storm to be unleashed. It hangs on that edge, always building, never relenting, pushing ever farther but so slowly you think everything is standing still, waiting, the eternal now that is the space between the inhale and the exhale, the pause in your cells in between heartbeats, everything in being waiting, empty, still. Nights like this, the entire fabric of the world is waiting, too, on the same ragged breath of the wind, the same beat of the crashing waves. The world is one, waiting on the same storm.
And I wait, too, myself. Wait for the storm, wait for the break, the crumbling of walls and no longer being one singular but with others, with another.
It is amazing to watch powerful, exciting, forward-straining art in the midst of the beauty of what came before.