Being human

She can hear the rumble of thunder, and knows what is about to ensue.

The lightning has already flashed, the thunder is now sounding and the downpour is just about to start.

She bends over, sweat trickling down the sides of her face, her hair a mess, body aching with fatigue.

Recalling the days when as a little child, she’d run to her mother’s arms every time there was a thunderstorm outside, she laughs sardonically at how time changes everything.

When it does start to rain, she crouches in a corner, tears streaming down her face, her heart caught in her throat.

Exhaustion takes over; she feels only half-conscious.

The tempest deepens, and now there are big blocks of ice hitting against everything around her.

Each frozen rock hits against her soft skin and takes her further away from consciousness.

The cyclone inside her swirls endlessly, crushing to bits everything she had put into herself, expelling the remnants.

It thickens still, and she finally begins to crack a smile through the tears.

To create, you first need to destruct.

To restart, you first need to stop.

To reach the peak, you first need to have been at rock-bottom.

To feel better, you first need to purge.

I was contradicting myself.

I was wrong.

You were right.

"Crying does not earn you pity, not always."

It makes you human.