do you remember that song?

I do. It went, "this place is a prison, and these people aren't your friends".

It rises up when the air is hot and heavy with humidity, the moment before the thunder rolls across the sky. When the ambiance is too full for any more sound or light, that sentiment echoes quietly, without words, in waves, rippling across the minds and hearts of all storm onlookers.
A sonic boom of silence and peace that clears the way for sound and light.

I'm the goddess of thunderstorms, and so the amused voyeur who observes with ever more quiet and contented eyes. Surrounded by chaos, and even the amateur architect of such. But not because I wanted to be here, or even because I merely found myself here. This is the waiting place of those who didn't act when it was time- somewhere to watch events unfold and make way for other events, to study cause and effect. No one sent me here against my will or even according to it, indeed the longer I sit in the eye of the storm the better I understand that this is the inevitable destination of the person I have been. There is nowhere to escape to, even if I so desired. This is the world I have created for myself, as beautiful as it is sad as it is tumultuous as it is scary. That's all the world ever is, ever will be, in one form or another. So where would I go? I'll be here until I learn to create somewhere new for myself to go- until I gain the ability to see order in the chaos.

The patrons of the goddess of thunderstorms pray with release: dancing and love and fruit and sex after long periods of stagnation and frustration. Whirlwinds of activity, the completion of an architectural marvel, the first performance of Mr. Holland's opus, the admission to the crime, the first spark of a man-made fire as seen from space after eons of unbroken darkness. The release that, by inherent definition, must follow a period of silence or sorrow or suffering. Any by sitting in the center of things, forcing myself to be quiet and understand, I pray to myself as well.

The untrained mind envisions emptiness as hell and fullness as heaven. But one doesn't exist without the other. So the patrons of the goddess of thunderstorms rejoice in the union of the two, the way they compliment one another with their opposing poles. So really, what is a prison? It has one very important thing in common with a safe house: you can leave neither. Whether the walls are made of justified bitterness and apathy, or fear, you wall yourself in. You create a place you cannot leave, for one reason or another. So obviously it would be pointless to ask who sent me here. The answer, of course, is that I did. But I have tried to build the walls in such a way that I will only be able to dismantle them when I am ready; when I have learned whatever it is I'm here to learn. Because certainly the well-balanced, experienced and healthy goddess is stronger, capable of undoing the damage of her weaker, unbalanced past self.

When I sit just in front of a storm and watch its arrival, it doesn't matter what I sing- or scream- about. No one hears the words, I do it for myself. I sing, and scream, about technology, family, violence, gambling, astrology, animal rights, pedophilia, money, sex, drugs cocopuffs, education, patience, power, religion, greed, pride, love... and the many other things people use in an effort to escape the massive emptiness that is part of being human that leads to their destruction. I try to warn that none of these things are salvation, the only salvation is to assimilate the emptiness, make it part of you. I know that my words don't carry on the wind, but I continue to call, imagining that the sentiment outlives the sound, perhaps dying out somewhere too far for me to see.