The air feels heavy. Oppressive. It weighs me down, filling my body with laziness. My head feels the pressure, a subtle pain that will not disperse. My neck, a recurring problem in recent weeks, chooses to twinge, as if reacting to the extra thickness in the air.
I succumb, knowing that I will accomplish nothing. I read. I rest. I wait for the storm that is yet to come.
Just a few moments ago, the sun broke through for the first time all day, and I know I must write something.
Yet, the heaviness remains.
I yearn for the release of the storm. Despite my fear of the rumbling thunder or the crack of lightning, I want to feel the cleansing of the air. I sense that it will wash my soul, and free my mind from the weight of oppression.
I yearn for the smell of ozone, and the sense of renewal.
I await the storm.
It comes from inside.