just a little free form...

Rain always helps her to fall asleep.  Nature singing a lullaby, the drops fall in a rhythmic steady chorus and some hit the window with a pleasant change of timbre, then silently drip downwards, leaving pieces of itself along the way and combining with its brothers and sisters.

Yes, rain always helps to ease away any stress and anxiety that block the path to a restful night's sleep.  But thunderstorms are even better.  The thunder cracks, a booming timpani, and the lightening flashes, allowing for a glimpse at the sky's tiny, falling musicians.  Thunderstorms she loves - the freedom the sky must feel, the release and relief - she wants that too.  She wonders what the sky thinks; thunderstorms are the most passionate acts of weather, not the rage of a tornado or hurricane, not the peace and drowsiness of a soft snowstorm, not the child-like joviality of a sunny day, they're emissions of strong emotion, a scream, a cry and a laugh all in rapid succession.

She thinks she'd like to be baptized in a thunderstorm.  What better a way to connect with whatever God you please, and mother earth?

She lay in bed when the storm wakes up outside.  She turns off her music - nothing special, just quiet and easy to ignore - to listen to it.  The rain falls, crescendos with the wind.  Then comes the timpani.  She counts the beats between this crack and the lightening strike.  Seven.  She remembers what she was told back in kindergarten, that the number of seconds between these two events is equal to the number of miles between yourself and the center of the storm.  She could run seven miles, or rather, less than seven, and meet it halfway.  Could I find it, she wonders, the very center, and would it feel different.  Would she feel it, really feel it, like feeling the very core, the very essence of any pure emotion?

She wonders many things as the tempo of the rain picks up.  What if it came to pass that the world were at my fingertips, she thinks.  Resting on the nave of my upturned hand, what would it feel like?  Heavy?  Would it radiate heat, vibrate with the energy of 6 billion bodies and 6 billion souls, of rushing rivers, pounding oceans, the gently breathing forests, the pumping blood of animals, the power of thunderstorms?  And if I felt all that, would I be able to comprehend the inexpressible and value and fragility of what I hold?  And if I could grasp the concept like I do the complex sphere, would I cradle it like a baby?  Drop it out of fear?  Could I change it; would I mold it to the contours of my palm?  Or, would I toss it to the universe and let it flow in the sea of fate?

She finds herself walking outside, standing with her arms outstretched, the rain drenching her body, mixing with her tears.  She opens her mouth and tilts her head back, closing her eyes and she realizes: I better make my choices wisely, because the world is right here.