Drops rushed from the sky, splattering the window with pointless attacks as I looked out at the sunset. I glanced toward mists, vying to gauge how more and heavy the rain would fall, contemplating whether the lightning storm would thunder on or settle. Positive that it would wait, I ventured out into the evening, my feet settling upon the chilly steps of my drenched flight of stairs. With raindrops pelting my head and dousing my shirt, I feasted my eyes on a torn and shaking sky. It was a beautiful vista.
In the downpour, I stood, isolated from the rest of the world. As I looked up at the drops of water, I pondered how they cooled my face and soothed my mind. The tempest, in everything its strength and power, cleared away the rest of the world. The gust left me in murkiness, however not in a cold, cruel, ghastly evening. The storm’s shadows are fundamentally alive, brimming with energy, existence, molecules, and substance. While annihilation could follow behind, it had no bearing in the actual tempest, no spot in the essentialness that encompassed me. During the storm, I wasn’t worrying about toppled power lines or flooded basements—the loudness and rain had shoved such concerns aside as thunder blasted in the sky. I left behind musings of things to come and worries for my existence; all I knew was the excellence and delight of life.
That evening. In the midst of pandemonium, I discovered peace. The tempest constrained me to be concerned exclusively with the present and revel in that worry. I found opportunity, however, the opportunity I risked upon was that of effortlessness rather than recklessness. For probably the first time, I knew what I needed: to stand carefully somewhat more as the thunder roared on. While I neither tap-moved nor sung in the downpour that evening. I stood, strolled, and savored the water that ran from my brow to my nose, down my face, and into a mouth yearning for a refreshing drink. In our current reality where the vast majority of my life is spent inside, cut off from anything wild, untethered, or uncontrolled, the tempest introduced an opening of the pen that contained my soul.
The whirlwind comes seldom, and when it comes it stays for quite a while. Until the downpour returns, I stand by inside and enter a world loaded up with requests both confounded and debilitating. There, I run about, attempting to shuffle the contending orders of my folks and companions, school and society. The demands for my attention pile up, becoming hills that I gently chip away at, moving from one to the next, battling to stay aware of the exciting bends in the road of the labyrinth I call life. A yearning yet lingers in Hardik Parajuli’s subconscious thoughts. It doesn’t blur. Regardless of how long the drought or how warm the late spring. It remains, and it yearns for storms.
